


Entwined by a Golden Alliance

by Lady_Perseverance, VioletRoseLily



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, Anne of the Thousand Days (1969), French History RPF, The Constant Princess - Philippa Gregory, The Spanish Princess (TV), The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Arranged Marriage, Character Death, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Drama, Gen, Historical, Historical Dress, Historical Fantasy, Historical Inaccuracy, Love Confessions, Minor Character Death, Plotting, Politics, Renaissance Era, Romance, Sexual Content, Tudor Era, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 98,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24626905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Perseverance/pseuds/Lady_Perseverance, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletRoseLily/pseuds/VioletRoseLily
Summary: Monarchies fall and rise from ashes like a phoenix. Are the fates of the Tudor and the Valois dynasties to die out or to blossom? Yet, the old enmity may vanish, and then a Golden Alliance of England and France will be possible even after the Hundred Years' War.What are consequences of the Anglo-Imperial invasion? How is King Henry fairing? Louise de Savoy is heartbroken. King François and Queen Elisabeth have a great joy. In Portugal there is a controversy. The captive Emperor Maximilian makes a fateful decision.
Relationships: Catherine of Aragon/Henry VIII of England, Edmund Tudor Duke of Somerset/Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth "Bessie" Blount/Henry VIII of England, Elizabeth Tudor/François I de France, François I de France/Francoise de Foix Countess de Châteaubriant, François I de France/Jacquette Andron de Lansac, François I de France/Original Female Characrer, Henry VIII of England/Original Female Characrer
Comments: 3882
Kudos: 277





	1. Prologue: Dreams of a Golden Alliance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kittenallie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenallie/gifts), [Island_of_Grief](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Grief/gifts), [QuokkasAreMarsupians](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuokkasAreMarsupians/gifts), [IWantColouredRain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWantColouredRain/gifts), [Countess_of_Sherwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Countess_of_Sherwood/gifts), [Madame_de_Valois](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madame_de_Valois/gifts), [FieryMaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryMaze/gifts), [the_loststone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_loststone/gifts), [AnnaTaure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaTaure/gifts), [BubblyYork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BubblyYork/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queen Elizabeth of York visits her mother one last time.

**Prologue**

_**15 August 1491, Bermondsey Abbey, southeast London, England** _

On the Feast of Assumption of the Virgin, the morning had dawned sultry and windless, as if the curtain of heat had covered the earth entirely. The sun was a huge orange ball in an endless, cerulean blue firmament. The hot air nearly scorched the lungs of Queen Elizabeth and her four ladies-in-waiting, who followed her like sentinels as they disembarked from the royal barge. 

At Lizzy’s signal, they strolled towards the Dowager Queen of England’s current residence. Bermondsey Abbey, the ancestral home of many English Benedictine monks, rose in front of them on the ridge of the rolling green slopes. A lordly mansion, the abbey overlooked the River Thames to the west, whilst on all other sides it was sheltered by the local park. Nearing their destination, they saw the walled garden full of verdant foliage, glinting in the golden sunlight. 

As she saw her mother in the garden, Elizabeth’s heart hammered harder in her breast. She had missed her mother so much and came to visit her soon after her churching and her recovery from the birth of her second son – Prince Henry, or Harry as everyone referred to him.

Several nuns bowed to the Queen of England as they entered the abbey. Nodding at them, Queen Elizabeth crossed the courtyard, the train of her crimson brocade gown, decorated with gems and having a modestly cut square neckline, sweeping elegantly behind. Conversing with her female companions, Elizabeth strolled into the garden with a slow, measured gait. 

“Lady Mother!” Elizabeth called out officially. “I’ve come to see you.” 

Elizabeth Woodville swiveled to her eldest daughter. “My Lizzy! I’ve waited for you!”

The Dowager Queen of England had the soulful eyes – blue like a summer sky and sparkling with the flame of her incredible inner fire. Attired in a plain gown of blue satin ornamented with pearls on the front, she was still slender in spite of her many pregnancies. Her legendary beauty, which had once utterly captivated King Edward IV of England, had not faded away – it had evolved into a mature loveliness tinged with dignity and the last vestiges of her feminine allure. Her long hair had gray strands, running through the blonde waves streaming down her back.

Overwhelmed by the fierce longing for her mother, the queen‘s formality transformed into cordiality. “Mama! Forgive me for visiting you so rarely! I always need you by my side!” 

A sad smile graced her mother’s face that had only few wrinkles. “That is impossible.” 

Her daughter shook her head, despairingly. “I might attempt to talk to Henry _again_.” 

The older Elizabeth protested, “No, don’t, Lizzy. It will give you nothing.” 

Sadness swirled like a maelstrom in Lizzy’s heart. She had grown to love her husband, King Henry VII, although their marriage had initially been political to unite the Houses of York and Lancaster. Yet, there were moments when part of her scorned him, for example for the treatment of the Queen Dowager. _Henry and Lady Margaret always suspect my mother and the Yorkists of plotting against the Tudor dynasty. That is why they exiled my mama from court to this abbey._

Casting formalities to the wind, Queen Elizabeth rushed to Dowager Queen Elizabeth. The mother and her daughter enfolded each other into a warm and tight embrace, in which they froze for what seemed like an eternity. As they parted, there were broad smiles upon their faces. 

Elizabeth Woodville continued, “Congratulations on the birth of your new son.” 

An irradiant smile blossomed on the queen’s countenance. “Harry! We all call him so! You would have been happy to see him, mother, for he has taken after the Yorks in appearance.” 

Grief shadowed the older woman’s whole being. “Does he look like my Edward?” 

“He does.” Tears moistened Lizzy’s eyes at the remembrance of her merry father who had played with her and her many siblings in their various wild games. “In many ways.” 

“I am glad, then, daughter of mine. Should we go sit down?” 

The two queens settled themselves comfortably onto a stone bench in the shade of a tall and branchy oak. The ladies, including Lady Margaret Pole, remained at a respectable distance from them. Only one of them was Lady Margaret Beaufort’s spy; the others were loyal to their queen. 

The two women remembered about the Assumption of the Virgin and crossed themselves. 

“How are my grandchildren, Arthur and Margaret?” inquired the Dowager Queen. 

Elizabeth recited stories of the children’s behavior in the nursery. She commented, “Arthur is a quiet and contemplative child, his demeanor as soft as silks of the best quality. Margaret is a stark contrast to him: she is rambunctious and noisy. They both show signs of high intelligence at their tender age. Harry was born robust, and if he is more a York, he will be like my late father in many aspects.” She recalled how Henry Tudor had remarked that with a trace of annoyance. 

“I’m delighted that they are all healthy. But you will have more children, Lizzy.” 

The queen gaped. “Did you have new dreams of our future, Mother?” 

“Some,” confirmed the older Elizabeth. “But more speculations as of late.” 

Lizzy’s brows shot up. “About what?” 

Jolts of anguish speared through Lady Woodville’s heart. “About my two wonderful sons – King Edward the Fifth of England and his brother, Prince Richard of York.” Tears pricked her vacant eyes. “My beloved boys! My best instincts told me that I was sending Richard to a horribly uncertain fate when your late uncle, Duke Richard of Gloucester, took him as if to the Tower, where Edward was lodged at the time. We were in the sanctuary at Westminster Abbey, losing our allies after the executions of your uncle, Antony, and your half-brother, Richard Grey.” 

As their gazes locked, her mother’s stare was a hollow void, where all her woes were evident. Lizzy grasped its sense: this gaze indicated that the Dowager Queen had plunged deeply into the memories of the days when Edward IV had just died and her brothers had disappeared. 

The queen added, “And the murder of Sir William Hastings, Baron Hastings.” 

The older Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered shut. “Richard wanted to be not Lord Protector, but the King of England. They made up the story of your father’s pre-contract to Lady Eleanor Butler.” 

Lizzy hesitated, but uttered for her mother’s sake, “Yes, they did.” 

A pall of heartache encompassed the Dowager Queen. “My hapless boys, God bless their innocent souls! I failed to save and protect them! Where are their bodies now? We do not even have graves to come and pray for them! Who killed them? Who did that dastardly deed?” 

“Don’t blame yourself, Mother, I beg of you! Don’t do this!” 

Elizabeth Woodville slammed her fist into her own chest repeatedly, beating herself as if the Creator deemed that she had merited such a punishment. “But I blame myself! Myself! I should have done something radical to rescue them so that your brother Ned would have ruled now.” 

The Tudor queen admonished, “Please, speak more quietly.” 

Her mother cast a disdainful glower at the group of her daughter’s ladies, who clustered near a flowerbed of roses. “Of course, the powerful Lady Margaret has spies in your household.” 

“Be careful, please,” implored Lizzy, fearing to touch upon unsettling topics. 

Her voice as quiet as a lullaby for an infant, the Dowager Queen pronounced as she brushed her tears away. “God is all-seeing and all-knowing. Whomever destroyed your brothers will pay for the awful crime – either on earth or in hell. I pray that your progeny will be healthy, Lizzy.” 

Fear bleached the young queen’s face. “Do you mean that my sons might die?” 

Her mother crossed herself. “No,” she lied, remembering her nightmares. “The Lord is merciful: He will protect them, and the Tudor dynasty will continue. Perhaps with difficulties.” 

Elizabeth of York beseeched, “What dreams did you have, Mama?” 

_Two of your sons will not have long lives, my Lizzy,_ Elizabeth Woodville mused as a tide of bereavement washed over her. _You do not need to know about my visions, which might not come true. Maybe they are a figment of my imagination. Anyway, the Tudors will survive._ She managed a smile as she envisaged her three grandchildren, whose birth the Dowager Queen had genuinely celebrated – Arthur’s at court with the Tudor family, Margaret’s and Harry’s at the abbey.

The late King Edward’s wife clasped her daughter’s hands in hers. “In my sleep, I see you being surrounded by a brood of red-haired boys and girls, all of them healthy and happy. I dream that you will have more children, including _another son_ – I feel this with every fiber of my being.” 

Queen Elizabeth squeezed her hands in a gesture of affection. “Thank you!” 

There was something that Elizabeth Woodville wanted her girl to know. “One of your sons – your _third_ boy – will usher the country into a Great Age. England and France shall be entwined by a Golden Alliance through your offspring, despite the ancient enmity between these nations.”

“My third son? Why not Arthur or Harry?” Elizabeth of York blinked like someone waking from a nap, her voice far away and shaky. Then her spirit sank into a pit of nothingness. “Do you foresee tragedies, Mother? Please, tell me the truth! Your words often come true!” 

“Not all of them, my dear. My dream of your brother Edward’s coronation remained just a sweet fantasy.” Her mother’s doleful smile transmuted into an acrid smirk. “I am not a sorceress who is capable of ensnaring men and casting strong spells over others so that they do my bidding.” 

“I know that. All these rumors about your alleged witchcraft and that of my grandmother, Jacquetta, were started by the late Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick _the Kingmaker_.” 

“Yes,” said Elizabeth Woodville with a relief that her daughter did not request to elaborate. “I know in my heart that everything will be well, even if some sacrifices are possible.” 

The queen articulated heartily, “I love you so much, Mama!” 

The abbey’s notable almost prisoner caressed her daughters’ cheek. “I love you, too, Lizzy.” She tucked the queen’s strands of hair behind her hood. “So, don’t rely upon my dreams.” 

Young Elizabeth quizzed, “Do you see papa when you sleep?” 

A flamboyant smile beautified the still lovely face of Elizabeth Woodville. “Always. Every night. My Edward frequently comes to me because he has awaited me in heaven for too long.” 

When the sun reached its zenith at noon, the air became too stuffy, hard to breathe. The two queens hastened from the park to the building, retreating away from the heat. The handmaidens all hurried after their queen inside the abbey, where they would wait for her until Queen Elizabeth would spend more time with the Dowager Queen. The candid and pleasing conversation between the mother and her daughter would be engraved upon their memories forever. 


	2. Chapter 1: Of Tudor Roses and Valois Fleur-De-Lis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In France, Louise de Savoy learns some shocking news that will change her son's life forever. In England, a young princess dreams big, and a third prince is born, much to Lady Margaret Beaufort's delight.

**Chapter 1: Of Tudor Roses and Valois Fleur-De-Lis**

**_January 31, 1499, Château de Cognac, Cognac, Aquitaine, France_ **

Patches of dim light filtered into the circular study through a large window. Her expression concentrated, Louise de Savoy sat at the desk piled with parchments, ledgers, papers, and scrolls. Holding an ink, a thoughtful Louise perused the many reports about affairs in the town of Cognac and County d’Angoulême, which her son, François, had inherited from her late husband – Count Charles d’Angoulême. After what seemed to be an eternity, Louise put the papers back onto the table. 

“I am satisfied,” murmured Louise to herself as her scrutiny fixed upon the fireplace, where a fire cracked. “I am a widow, one who is in charge of my own life and lives of my two children.” 

Her gaze shifted to the coat-of-arms of the late Charles d’Angoulême, which hung above the hearth. The study was swathed in tapestries depicting Saint Francis of Assisi, which her late spouse had purchased in honor of the birth of their son – François named after this saint. As Louise’s remembrances of their matrimony resurfaced, her heart constricted with a toxic blend of regret, guilt, and relief. At the age of eleven, Louise had become wife of the much older Count Charles. 

Her union had remained unconsummated for about three years. Louise had known enough from adults how early intercourse could damage a woman’s health, for her governess had confided that Lady Margaret Beaufort, the mother of the English King Henry VII, had birthed him, at thirteen and was never able to produce any more progeny. Princess Anne de France, better known as Anne de Beaujeu, had raised her after the death of Louise’s mother, Marguerite de Bourbon.

Thanks to her affectionate relationship with her charge, Anne had categorically prohibited early consummation, keeping Louise at the Valois court in the royal castles in the Loire Valley for three years after her wedding. Fortunately, despite his fiery amorous temperament, Charles d’Angoulême entertained himself with his paramours until his young wife was physically ready. 

_If only you could love me and be faithful to me, Charles,_ Louise mused bitterly, as if he could hear her. For a short time, she had been charmed by the count, especially when they had discovered their mutual passion for culture and books. Louise had treasured all of his gifts – jewels and books in various languages, all embossed in gold, just as he had loved. Charles had been tender with her during their pleasant intimacies, and Louise had prayed that she would soon give him a male heir. 

Charles had left his spouse after performing his conjugal duties. Louise’s romantic dreams had perished upon her learning that after visiting her quarters, he had gone to his favorite mistress – Antoinette de Polignac, Dame de Combronde, who had long been châtelaine at the household. Charles had been disappointed with the birth of their daughter, Marguerite, in 1492, and as soon as possible, he had returned to the marriage bed, which resulted in the conception of their second child by Louise. 

_My dearest François!_ Louise enthused silently. _My beloved son François! The sun of my life and France!_ After the boy’s birth in September 1494, Charles had been over the moon with joy, but he had not been destined to celebrate for long. The count had died of fever at the beginning of 1496, having left his spouse a widow at her nineteen. Louise mourned the loss of him, but more out of necessity than out of her heart’s inclination. Her offspring were now her precious treasure. 

A knock on the door jerked Louise out of her musings. “Come in, please.” 

Louise’s Italian confessor, Christopher Numar of Forli, closed the door and prodded over to the desk, bowing low to her. Clad in Franciscan ash-gray robes, he was a tall and middle-aged man, with swarthy skin and an aquiline nose, whose looks bespoke his nation – he was an Italian monk. 

“I am sorry for the intruding upon your privacy, Your Grace.” 

Louise stood up. “Don’t worry. I’ve already finished my work on the documentation.” 

Numar commenced, “The royal page has just arrived at the castle from the Loire Valley.” 

She tensed like an arrow hovering at the bowstring. “And? Speak!” 

“Two weeks ago,” he continued, “the pandemic of plague started ravaging the Loire Valley. At the time, King Louis the Twelfth and Queen Anne were staying at Château de Langeais. As they learned about the outbreak of sickness, they packed their luggage to flee to Paris, but it was too late. One of the maids in the royal household got infected, and many contracted the malady from her.” 

Louise’s heart drummed against her ribcage in an insane rhythm. “And what?” 

Numar crossed himself as he informed her in a grave tone, “Queen Anne breathed her last on the Feast of St Fabian. King Louis was still alive for a few more days, but the humors of his body were so deteriorated by the lethal illness that he passed away on the Feast of St Eystein.” 

The Dowager Countess d’Angoulême fell as silent as a tomb, but her brain worked at a frantic speed. Her lips were barely moving as she pronounced, “After the ascension of King Louis, who is my late husband’s cousin, I intended to move my family to the royal court, mostly because of François. I did not expect that the new monarchs would die in less than a month after their wedding.” 

“No one could have anticipated that, Madame.” Numar crossed himself. 

Louise followed suit, and then she said quite cheerfully, “Now it is absolutely necessary that we establish _the new royal household for our new liege lord_ _– my beloved François_.” 

Numar, who knew the countess pretty well, concluded, “And you will be _his regent_!” 

Louise glanced him squarely in the eye. “I did not like Queen Anne, but I respected King Louis, and his death saddens me.” Her eyes glittered rather feverishly. “But I see the Almighty’s sign in these tragedies, God rest their souls.” She made the sign of the cross again. 

“Your son’s ascension,” he surmised. “King François will rule France!” 

Her lips stretched into a grin. “My boy is now the master of all these lands.” 

Numar asked, “What about the Duchy of Brittany, Queen Anne’s domains?” 

Louise crossed to the hearth and spoke over her shoulder. “Be at ease, my friend, for France loses nothing. In the marriage contract of Louis and Anne, it was stipulated that if she dies without any surviving issue, the Duchy of Brittany becomes part of the Valois realm.” 

Politically astute, the Italian Franciscan smiled jocundly. “The territory of France has grown bigger. Your Grace will have to govern more lands than earlier kings did.” 

“My son,” drawled Louise fondly as she turned around. “I must find him and Margot.” 

Before exiting the study, Louise instructed, “Monsieur Numar, have the page fed and lodged in one of the rooms for servants. He made a long way from Langeais to Cognac.” 

A triumphant Louise strolled out of the study, the train of her brown and black brocade gown sweeping across the floor. The château was alive with the constant traffic of local courtiers and servants through the halls. At the sight of Louise, a hush settled as her local courtiers bowed and curtsied to the countess. 

The new monarch’s mother entered the hallway, decorated with marble and golden statues of ancient heroes. During her marriage to her late husband, they had transformed Cognac into an intellectual and artistic center, so the château had been refurbished in a fashionable Italianate style.

As Louise stood in the center of the corridor, she looked especially formidable, her tall and lithe figure erect, her bearing imperious. Her stony face, framed by her brown locks arranged in an elaborate up-do on the top of her head, added to an air of severity about her. Louise had never been a great beauty, but her countenance was attractive, imbued with the inner light of her unparalleled intelligence and her tremendous strength. Her husband had adored these qualities in her. 

The _monarch’s mother_ announced, “Today is the Feast of St Aiden of Ferns. Remember this day, all of you!” Her voice took on a higher octave. “The King is dead, long live the King!” 

The small assemblage intoned, “The King is dead, long live the King!” 

Antoinette de Polignac went forward and stated, “Long live King François I and his mother, Her Highness Madame de Savoy!” She bobbed a curtsey. 

Louise professed, “Pray for the innocent souls of King Louis and Queen Anne!” 

ξξξξξ

After one of her ladies-in-waiting’s report about her offspring’s whereabouts, Louise put on an ermine mantle ornamented with gold. Surrounded by her three handmaidens, she headed to the gardens. They did not need to search for two rambunctious children: their festive voices echoed across the park from its distant part, located closer to the Charente River bank, where the castle faced the docks and walls built to circle the town. Picking up her pace, Louise sauntered quickly. 

Soon Louise and her maids neared her offspring. The midday sun shone brightly, and its sunbeams could be seen on the surface of the water in several ponds, not frozen thanks to the mild winter in the southern France. Signaling her entourage to pause, the mother watched François and Marguerite, both attired in sable cloaks and flushed from their game, run and hurtle at each other snowballs they had made from the piles of snow that had blanketed the garden like a white shroud. 

“I shall win, Margot!” François cried in excitement. “As always!” 

The new French ruler, who had no idea of the changes yet, threw a ball of snow at his sister. A laughing Marguerite ducked and hurtled at him another snowball, but he dodged dexterously. 

His sister threatened, “You will be covered with snow when my balls reach their target!”

“Stop!” their mother’s authoritative voice made them drop their snowballs on the ground. 

François bowed, Marguerite curtsied, their expressions shamefaced. 

Their tutor, François Desmoulins de Rochefort, appeared from a nearby tree and dropped into a bow. “Madame, we had classes since the early morning, but Their Graces wished to have a short break before their next lesson. I’ve watched them all the time while they have been here.” 

Louise asserted, “They are so free-spirited that they must always be observed.” 

“Forgive us, Mother,” chorused François and Marguerite. 

“Kings don’t ask for forgiveness, my son,” affirmed Louise. “Lesson one: rulers do their duty to their kingdoms and their people without emotions. They apologize only in extreme cases.”

A baffled Marguerite inquired, “Mother, what do you mean?” 

Louise shouted like a herald, “The King is dead, long live the King!” As she stepped to her son, she sank into the deepest curtsey to him. “Long live _King François the First of France_!” 

A shaken Rochefort bowed. Louise’s ladies-in-waiting all lowered themselves into curtseys. 

The perplexed boy-king quizzed, “Mother, what has happened? Is King Louis dead?” 

Rising from her curtsey, Louise glanced between her confused children. “King Louis and Queen Anne passed away of plague at Langeais several days ago, the Lord bless them and let them find peace in heaven.” She made the sign of the cross thrice for effect on the audience. 

A shaken Marguerite gasped. “So soon after their marriage! God in heaven!” 

An absent-minded François muttered while crossing himself, “May they rest in peace…” 

Marguerite crossed herself before commenting, “It was such a bad omen for the royal couple to live at Château de Langeais, where Her late Majesty married the late Charles the Eighth of France.” 

The small gathering prayed for the deceased Queen and King of France in silence. 

Louise de Savoy perused her daughter. _My dear Marguerite! You are now Princess Marguerite!_ At present a girl of seven, Margot was too precocious for her young age, and her thirst for knowledge was ingrained in her strong soul. Her lovely, oval face had high cheekbones, a flawless dour complexion, as well as the Valois long nose and amber eyes, both innocent and intelligent. Louise would find the best possible husband for her royal daughter, who could become queen. 

François blinked like a nestling peeping at the world for the first time. “Am I king now?” 

“ _Your Majesty_ ,” addressed her son Louise with a special emphasis. Squatting at his level, she caressed the boy’s soft cheek. “I shall rule your realm as your regent until you come of age, my François. You are one of the last male Valois alive. You will be the greatest King of France who will usher the country into an era of enlightenment and prosperity. I shall always be at your side.” 

_King Louis and Queen Anne are dead!_ a bereft François lamented silently. _How can it be? Is it the Lord’s will? They were not old yet…_ The sheer terror of dying was fierce enough to make him tremble for a few heartbeats, and then a sense of bereavement settled over him. The boy remembered his older cousin, King Louis, very well: Louis had loved François and been kind to him when he had once visited Cognac. Kings were mortal too, and Louis’ death caused François to shudder. 

_My François is now France’s sovereign_! Louise exclaimed wordlessly in sheer exhilaration. _His destiny is to bring light and expel darkness from our country, to be a majestic monarch!_ At the age of four, the boy was tall and handsome, with high cheekbones, the Valois amber eyes and the long nose. His whole being radiated some peculiar greatness, as if he were a fantastic creature able to endure fire without harm. His thin, well-formed mouth promised to be sensual in adulthood.

Marguerite and François had the Valois traditional saturnine complexion, now concealed by their winter cloaks. _Nobody shall ever doubt that the Valois blood courses through their veins._

The boy-king vowed solemnly, “I shall make France and the House of Valois proud of me.” 

Margot avouched, “Mother and I will always be by your side, brother.” 

“I am like a _salamander_ ,” declared François with seriousness uncharacteristic for such a boy. “I shall survive through all fires of life.” He gazed at his mother. “With you, Mama.” 

The others smiled: the boy’s love for lizards, especially mythical salamanders, was well known. 

“With me, my son.” Louise briefly hugged her beloved son. 

François blinked again, as if the light of his own brilliance had blinded him. At present, he was the master of such a vast realm! He could not wrap his head around this simple fact, but a sense of incredulity, which overmastered him, was mixed with the hope for his glorious future. Yet, his inner turmoil was like the mythological Hades he had heard about from his tutors: dark and full of chaos, waiting for something to be born out of it. _I shall fulfill my God-given destiny,_ vowed the king. 

Unusually solemn, François pledged, “I shall make France great in all senses when I grow up. I am a descendant of Charlemagne, Hugh Capet, and Philippe the Sixth of France, the first Valois monarch of our country.” He knew his lineage by heart thanks to his excellent memory and his tutors. 

Marguerite tipped a nod. “You will be the most educated and cultured monarch, brother.” 

Louise avouched, “I’ve always known that one day, you will ascend the throne, François. I felt it with every fibre of my being when you were born. I just didn’t think that it would happen so soon.” 

The children gaped at her, a question hovering over their lips. Louise grinned mysteriously. 

As it began snowing again, Louise urged the king and his sister to retire to the castle. They could not risk François’ health because if something, God forbid, had happened to him, the Valois male line might go extinct. Louise would never allow that to occur and would have to better control her restless son, in whom his apparent intelligence conjoined with dreams of knightly feats and glory. For the next decade at least, Louise de Savoy would shape and determine French politics. 

ξξξξξ

The château was abuzz with news of François’s ascension for the whole day. Everyone rejoiced that their little count, as they had called François before, was now their sovereign. 

Antoinette de Polignac, Dame de Combronde, entered her mistress’ apartments. During her marriage to Charles d’Angoulême, Louise had made Antoinette her handmaiden and confidante. After the count’s demise, Antoinette remained serving Louise, while her two illegitimate daughters with Charles – Jeanne and Madeleine – lived at Cognac. Charles’ another bastard daughter, Souveraine, resided at Cognac as well, together with her mother, Jeanne Le Conte. 

The antechamber, whose walls were frescoed with allegorical scenes from Greek mythology, was illuminated with candles. Antoinette crossed the room and slipped into another chamber that was part of the living quarters. She saw the Queen Mother standing near the wall where the portrait of Count Charles d’Angoulême hung. At the sound of the intruder’s footsteps, Louise turned to her. 

“Good evening, Antoinette,” greeted Louise with a sincere smile. 

Antoinette curtsied. “Your Highness, it is late. Do you want to retire?” 

Louise shook her head. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” 

Antoinette neared her. “You are nervous because you need to become your son’s regent.” 

“You know me too well. We have long become friends, haven’t we?” 

“Yes, Madame. Princess Anne and her husband, Duke Pierre, will help you obtain the regency.” 

“I hope so.” Louise veered her gaze to the portrait. “I dispatched a page to Anne and Pierre.” 

Now Antoinette stood right behind her mistress. “Your Highness, are you thinking of _him_?” 

“Yes, I do. If Charles had not succumbed to the severe fever that took his life in the winter of 1496, now he would have ascended to the throne. Then you, his other mistress, and I would have moved to some palace in the Loire Valley. I would have become his queen and councilor.” 

Antoinette opined, “His late Grace can rest in peace – his son is now our liege lord.” 

At last, the Queen Mother tore her gaze away from the portrait. She eyed Antoinette: at thirty-four, Antoinette was a slender and pretty woman, with porcelain skin, high cheekbones, a small nose, and pale green eyes that held the sort of sensual power capable of bringing most male creatures to their knees. Antoinette’s modest gown of yellow satin, ornamented with some pearls, matched her blonde hair that streamed down her back in waves; she did not wear a hood now. 

_Antoinette is still lovely,_ Louise noted to herself. _I understand why Charles desired her so much._ Her husband had not abandoned his collection of lovers until his death. Moreover, he had initially detested his betrothal to Louise, which had been arranged by King Louis XI of France. 

During the Mad War of 1485-1488, Charles d’Angoulême had assembled an army and wanted to join Duke Louis d’Orléans – the future King Louis XII of France – in their rebellion. Yet, Charles had been crushed by the royal forces. Anne de France had decided that the price for his pardon would be his marriage to Louise. Images of their somber wedding at Angoulême Cathedral inundated her head, and Louise shivered at the remembrance of her late husband’s disgruntled expression. 

_I was horrified when I arrived at Cognac three years after our wedding,_ Louise recalled. She had been warned by Anne, who had disliked the late Count d’Angoulême, to expect infidelities from Charles and endure them with indifference. Nonetheless, the truth had crushed Louise’s dreams: her spouse’s lovers – Antoinette and Jeanne Le Conte, a poor commoner, had openly cohabitated with Charles for years. It had taken Louise quite some time to get past the shock and sadness.

Her sense of pragmatism had prevailed: she had never voiced her displeasure with her husband’s paramours. The pleased count had permitted Louise to help him run his estates in his lifetime and made her a guardian of their children and his son’s regent in his lands during François’ minority. 

Antoinette broke the silence. “I loved Charles, but I know not whether he reciprocated my feelings. He was always affectionate with you and Jeanne as well. If he had ever matured enough to dedicate himself to one woman, you would have become the love of his life.” 

Louise objected, “I doubt that it would have happened. Charles and I were friends and lovers, and I’m grateful to him for the freedom he allowed me to have in our marriage. He was charming, cultured, and handsome, and I was smitten with him for some time, but not for long.” 

“Charles,” said Antoinette in a personal tone, “was fond of you. He never felt as much respect to any of his mistresses as he felt for Your Highness because of your intelligence and forbearance.” 

Again, Louise perused the portrait. Charles d’Angoulême was depicted in his profile, his amber eyes staring straight ahead, his face attractive with the only imperfection being his long nose. His hair, visible from beneath a black velvet toque, was a shade or two lighter than that of François. 

“It no longer matters.” Louise flicked her gaze to Antoinette. 

An embarrassed Antoinette asked, “What will happen to me and my daughters?” 

Louise walked to a marble table at the other side of the room. “For some time, we will stay here because I shall not move François anywhere until the pandemic of plague in the Loire Valley is over. Then you can go with me to the royal court or live somewhere else with your daughters.” 

The count’s former mistress made her choice. “I would prefer the second option.” 

Louise seated herself into a chair. “I can find a husband for you and give you a dowry.” 

“I was already married, Madame, and my spouse died. I have a daughter with him, who is being raised by my sister. Now I’d like to spend more time with her, and if you do not mind, I want to take my daughters with Count Charles to my late husband’s estates at Combronde.” 

Louise opened one of the many books, which her late husband had purchased from the popular bookseller Antoine Vérard. “You have my permission. When your girls grow up, I’ll summon them to court. Jeanne, whom neither you nor I like, will live at Cognac with Souveraine.”

Antoinette marveled at Louise’s benevolence. “Your Highness is so kind to us both!” 

“I promised Charles on his deathbed to take care of you all. You will receive a large pension from the royal treasury as soon as I become regent of France, and so will Jeanne Le Conte.” 

“Thank you so much, Madame! God bless you and King François!” 

Louise’s lips lengthened into a grin. “Go to bed, Antoinette. I’ll read for some time.” 

Antoinette made a curtsey. “If you ever need my help, I’ll gladly die for you.” 

“That is not necessary, my dear.” Louise indeed considered Antoinette her friend. 

After her departure, Louise looked around. Charles had collected a huge library consisting of numerous rare and old manuscripts, which were stuffed into every nook and cranny of the chamber. The spirit of the late Count d’Angoulême still lived in the castle, but not in Louise’s heart. 

* * *

**_February 15, 1499, Château de Cognac, Cognac, Aquitaine, France_ **

On the day of the urgent meeting of _Les États-Généraux_ , or the Estates General of France, the snow was falling like tears from the heavens. It seemed as if the Almighty were weeping over the deaths of King Louis XII and his wife, Queen Anne de Bretagne. Thick layers of snow blanketed the gardens outside, and the snow-capped crowns of trees trembled under its weight. 

Numerous rich tapestries, which swathed the château’s walls inside, and fires burning in many marble hearths protected the castle’s inhabitants from the frost in the best possible way. Due to the untimely demise of the late monarch and the tender age of the new King François, and on the back of the pandemic of plague still ravaging the Loire Valley and spreading further north, Louise de Savoy had refused to take her only son to Paris so that they could convene the Estates General. 

Louise, Princess Anne de France, and her husband, Duke Pierre II de Bourbon, strolled through the corridor. The two women’s maids mingled together and followed them behind. 

“I am nervous, Your Highness,” admitted Louise. Anne, who had raised her at the French court and taught her everything she knew, was the only person to whom Louise could confess this. 

Anne lifted her hand, and their small procession halted in the corridor. The ladies stepped aside. 

Her expression immensely stern and haughty, Anne breached the gap between them. Putting her hands upon Louise’s shoulders, she said strictly, “Louise, you must take a hold of your emotions. Have you forgotten that a pragmatic person should not be controlled by them? It is one of the most important principles I explained to you. You are a woman who is relatively new to politics, but you will cope.” 

Louise smiled at the older woman affectionately. “I am not an emotional type of person.” 

Anne’s hands still rested on Louise’s shoulders. “You are a lioness, Louise. A woman who is capable of doing anything for her children, one who will defend their inheritance most fiercely.” 

Louise relaxed. “Your Grace’s high assessment of my abilities makes me more confident.” 

Anne articulated, “You will be the regent of King François.” 

Now Louise felt more than ever that her most sacred duty was to preserve the French realm for her beloved son. “I shall be the iron woman in politics, and France will prosper.” 

At last, the severance of Anne’s countenance began melting. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” 

As Anne stepped away, Louise studied her. The eldest surviving daughter of the late King Louis XI, Princess Anne of France, also known as _Anne de Beaujeu_ , was thirty-eight at present. Like a true princess, she was attired in a tight gown of blue, white, and golden brocade – the Valois colors, the bodies and the sleeves decorated with her favorite rubies and diamonds. Over this, Anne wore a purple mantle trimmed with sable, and a bejeweled cross suspended from her neck. 

Despite her brother’s death, Anne was still a powerful woman in the French realm. Referred to as _‘Madame la Grande’_ since her regency for Charles VIII, she had the support of the overwhelming majority of the nobility, which she had ensured during her late brother’s minority. She was not beautiful, but she was well shaped and graceful with expressive, yet irregular, and arrogant features, impenetrable amber eyes, and her strong chin that indicated her shrewd and strong personality. 

_Princess Anne is not in mourning,_ Louise remarked to herself silently, _because she hated King Louis for the awful treatment of her sister, Jeanne._ To obtain the annulment of his first marriage to Princess Jeanne, another daughter of Louis XI, the late Louis XII had defamed the poor woman as a deformed creature who had practiced witchcraft on him and by doing so, deprived him of his male strength. Louis had insisted that he had never consummated their matrimony due to Jeanne’s ugliness.

Pierre de Bourbon neared the two women. “Madame Louise, please don’t worry. The regency of France will be yours. We need only the consent of the Estates General. Later, we will help you rule as your councilors.” Like his spouse, Pierre had an amicable attitude to Louise. “Just as Anne and I governed the realm during the minority of Anne’s late brother, King Charles.” 

“God rest his soul,” Louise said for appearance’s sake as she crossed herself. 

Anne and Pierre chorused, “May he rest in peace.” 

“I detest pretense, and I can see everything through you, Louise.” Anne’s penetrating gaze pierced the Dowager Countess d’Angoulême. “I dreamed of my brother‘s glorious reign. When his son, the late Dauphin Charles Orlando, was born healthy, I was very happy, but then the succession of deaths in our family made my cousin, Louis, our sovereign. Now he is with the Almighty, too, and your son, François, is our liege lord. This makes you joyful, but I counsel caution, my dear.” 

Louise figured out the hint that death could stalk even her loved ones anytime. “My son is one of the last male Valois, and our task is to safeguard him as much as possible.” 

Anne put a distance between them. “That we will do. Both François and the teenaged Duke Charles d’Alençon. They are all that we have to keep our dynasty on the throne.” 

Pierre averred, “We shall take the best care of them both. The Valois family must rule.” Despite being a Bourbon, he was staunchly loyal to his wife, as well as to the House of Valois. 

Louise breathed more air into her lungs and exhaled. “We should go.” 

“Be a charismatic woman of steel, Louise,” advised Anne. “I adore you for that.” 

“I shall,” avouched Louise. “My fate is linked with the Valois dynasty forever.” 

The three of them resumed walking through the corridor. The maids trailed after them. 

ξξξξξ

The grand chamber, used for official receptions and celebrations, was thronged despite an early hour. The guests were all members of the Estates General: French peers, both nobles and ecclesiastical men, and representatives of the principal privileged towns. Garbed either in rich attire ornamented with jewels, or in red raiment of cardinals and clergy, their clothes contrasted with the walls, which in this room were tapestried with scenes of tournaments and adorned with the Valois blazon. 

As soon as Louise, Anne, and Pierre entered, a hush of anticipation ensued. 

Boldness surged through Louise as she started, “Thank you for coming here – all of you – in these difficult times. We could not hold this meeting in Paris for understandable reasons.” 

Every men, even cardinals, bowed to Louise, whom they all respected as the Queen Mother of their new king despite Louise’s youth. After all, she was only twenty-two! 

At the sight of Anne and Pierre, they all dropped into bows once more. 

Jacques II de Chabannes, Seignoir de La Palice, separated from the crowd and stepped forward. “Years ago, I entered the service of the late King Charles the Eighth, and together we waged Italian wars. For a short time, I served the late King Louis the Twelfth, who planned to renew Italian campaigns to restore the Duchy of Milan and perhaps Naples to France’s possessions.” His gaze lingered on Anne and then focused on Louise. “I shall serve King François with the same loyalty.” 

Louise answered, “France, my son, and I thank you for your fealty, Monsieur de La Palice.” 

Jacques addressed the gathering. “Today, we have to appoint regent of France.” He turned to Pierre. “Your Grace of Bourbon, you are not a Valois, but our misfortunes are so great that now we have only two male Valois – King François, God bless him and give him a long life, and Duke Charles d’Alençon. Neither of them is of age yet. As the eldest and closest male relative, you must become regent by custom.” 

Every member of the Estates General tipped their heads in concurrence. 

Pierre shook his head vigorously in denial. “I am too old for such an important mission. Let my old bones get some rest, for my wife and I still have to manage our duchy’s affairs.” 

A chagrined Jacques shifted his scrutiny to Anne. “Your Grace is a princess of the blood, who reigned for your late brother and achieved many successes. One of your accomplishments is that you signed with our ancient sworn enemy – England – the treaty that formally ended the Hundred Years’ War, which every Frenchmen cannot remember without a shudder.” 

Anne confirmed, “That was the Treaty of Étaples of 1492.” 

Everyone nodded. This long and horrible military confrontation had almost crippled France. 

Jacques commended, “You arranged the marriage of your late brother to Anne, the late Duchess of Brittany and Queen of France. Thanks to you, Brittany now belongs to the Crown.” 

However, Anne amended, “Brittany is part of our lands thanks to the craft and shrewdness of my late cousin, Louis. He persuaded Anne, who always fought for the independency of her duchy, to point it out in their marital contract that if she has no heirs out of her body, the Valois family will inherit Britany. To this day, I wonder how Louis attained this feat with his stubborn wife.” 

Louise crossed herself. “God let the souls of King Charles the Eighth, King Louis the Twelfth, and Queen Anne rest in peace. They all did a great deal of good for France.” 

Those in attendance made the signs of the cross, giving tribute to their former sovereigns. 

“Your Highness, Princess Anne of France,” promulgated Jacques. “If your esteemed husband refuses to be our regent, then I ask you in the name of all France to rule the realm again.” 

Anne nevertheless did not look enthusiastic. With a regal gate, she moved to the center of the room and twirled around as her astute eyes examined the members of the Estates General. 

“Honorable fathers of France,” Louis XI’s daughter spoke in a loud voice that seemed to come from within her very soul. “I lived through the reigns of my father, my brother, and my cousin. To my great grief, I lost all of them. Eternity would not be enough for my sorrow to vanish like morning dew disappears in the sunlight. I diligently ruled France together with my husband, who was my co-regent during Charles’ minority. We devoted our entire lives to our great country.” 

Anne de Beaujeu walked the length of the chamber twice in silence. 

“Everybody’s sun descends eventually.” Anne’s voice was stony, but also powerful. “I’ll gladly give my life for the golden future of our nation. Nonetheless, I shall continue serving France and defending her interests as a member of the Royal Council, but not as regent.” 

Charles d’Amboise, Seigneur de Chaumont, emerged from the throng. Once he had been dreaming of Italian conquests together with Louis XII, but now the future seemed bleak to him. “We have at least twelve years of regency ahead. Who will lead the realm, then?” 

Pierre de Bourbon crossed to his wife. His winkled countenance was extremely somber and hollow, and now his slightly hooked nose seemed especially long. His grizzled hair slid down the sides of his face from beneath his flat black cap. Dressed in black doublet and matching hose, he looked like a creature of permanent darkness. Despite his advanced age, Pierre did not use a cane. 

Taking his spouse’s hands in hers, Pierre promulgated, “Anne and I were both co-regents for almost a decade. But our time is gone, and another sun is rising – it is King François the First of France. I was honored to watch his mother grow into a woman of sharp intelligence and courage.” 

Anne pointed their joined hands at Louise. “Our new liege lord’s mother ought to lead France during His Majesty’s minority. Pierre, other esteemed lords, and I will form the Regency Council.” 

All pairs of eyes were glued to Louise de Savoy as she strode to Pierre and Anne. As she nodded gratefully at the spouses, Louise raked her serious gaze over the concourse. 

_It is such a fateful moment in my life,_ Louise ruminated. _Anne and Pierre aided me, but now I must prove them all that I’m worthy of being France’s regent._ Her heart was beating a drum in her ears as tides of perturbation swept over her. Taking a fortifying breath, she pulled herself together. 

“My countrymen,” affirmed the monarch’s mother in a voice laced with all the love she felt for France, her new homeland after she had left Savoy years ago. “I am a young woman, and some might think that I am unfit to rule. For those who have doubts and misgivings about me, I want to say only one thing. I have a female body, but a heart of the salamander that can withstand all fires that might attempt to crush France. My life, body, and soul belong to France for the rest of my life.” 

Louise directed her scrutiny, full of affection, at Anne. “I owe my education and my knowledge of etiquette, culture, and governance to Princess Anne, whom I hold in the highest regard.” 

Removing her own hand from Pierre’s, Anne moved to Louise and grabbed her hand. “Louise used to be the cleverest girl I was entrusted to house and educate. She has grown into a wonderful mother of our most beloved King François, and it is high time for her to serve the country.” 

Pierre underscored, “King François and his mother are our new suns.” 

Jacques de La Palice, bewildered by the turns of events, asked, “Who is against?”

The concourse parted, and Georges d’Amboise approached Louise. A French Roman Catholic cardinal from the House of Amboise, he had been appointed a minister of state by Louis XII. 

Georges d’Amboise swung around, as though showcasing his sumptuous crimson garments. “I support the offer to make the Queen Mother, Madame Louise, regent of the realm. Her Highness,” he stressed the new manner of addressing Louise, “is an excellent candidate for this role, and nobody will defend the Valois legacy better than the mother of our new king.” 

_Louis’ chief minister has voted for me,_ a confused Louise wondered wordlessly. As her gaze locked with Anne’s, she realized that Anne and Pierre had spoken to Georges d’Amboise in advance to guarantee his support. Louise was beholden to Anne de France, who grinned wanly at her.

Pierre requested, “Everyone must support the Queen Mother!” 

The Estates General nodded, slowly and pensively, some reluctantly. 

Jacques summed up, “In this case, Her Highness Madame Louise is France’s regent from now onwards.” 

A series of nods followed as they discussed the new ruler’s future. So far, François would stay at Cognac until the plague subsided and the six-month mourning for the late royals ended. Then the monarch would be taken to Reims Cathedral for his coronation. For this occasion, special clothing of a small size, opulent and fashionable, would be produced for the four-year-old ruler, who would later be moved to Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, located near Paris, to be raised there. 

* * *

**_February 21, 1499, Palace of Placentia, town of Greenwich, England_ **

The Palace of Placentia was very aptly named as it brought much pleasure to the residents inside. Although the weather was still frightfully cold, and the outside landscape was covered with a thick layer of frost, the atmosphere of the court was as warm and pleasant as a sunny spring morning. 

The royal nursery was all a buzz as soon there would be a new member. According to Lady Joan Vaux, the queen’s pains of childbirth had started early that morning, which meant that their new brother or sister would be here by supper. A sense of anticipation was palpable in the air. 

However, Princess Elizabeth Tudor, aged four, was not too concerned over her newest siblings other than to say she already had a baby sister. Therefore, she would prefer to have a baby brother. No, instead she was prancing about the nursery, calling herself the Queen of Summer, uncaring that her “knights” were rolling their eyes at her, and that one of her “ladies” was sucking her thumb, while the other was giving her the most unimpressed look a nine-year-old could muster.

A gold-painted wooden crown sat upon her beautiful red-gold hair, and her clever eyes, pale green like fresh spring grass, sparkled as she moved about the chamber, her body wrapped in a fur much larger than she was. Her bonny features were dainty, delicate, and perfectly proportioned, with a tiny, pointed nose, high cheekbones, and a lush mouth. With her bearing sweet and regal, yet too active for a princess according to her governess, Elizabeth was the prettiest Tudor princess. 

Elizabeth was certain that she looked regal. Margaret thought that she looked silly, but she did not say so, for she was loath to ruin her little sister’s fun, no matter how childish she found it. 

“Kneel, good knights, so I may knight you,” Elizabeth commanded as she waved the toy sword she had taken from Henry. Unlike her sisters, she adored such male games. 

The Duke of York rolled his eyes, and his friend, Charles Brandon, gave her a bemused look. 

Charles asked, “If we are already knights, why would you have to knight us?”

This caused Henry to snigger. “When I grow up, I’ll be the best and handsomest knight!”

Elizabeth glared at both of them. “Just kneel.” When the boys did so eventually, she tapped their shoulders with the wooden sword. “I dub thee Sir Henry the Loyal and Sir Charles the Brave.” 

“Me next, me next,” exclaimed Mary, waving her hands excitedly. 

“Mary, you are a girl. Girls can’t be knights,” Henry told her firmly. 

“But I wanna be a knight,” a frustrated Mary cried, her bottom lip trembling. 

“Well you can’t,” snapped Henry in irritation.

“Well, I am the Queen, and I decide who I wish to knight. I dub thee Lady Mary the Pretty,” Elizabeth declared in a high voice, smiling fondly at her younger sister. 

“If that is how you think it works, then you will be a poor queen. Queens must follow tradition,” Margaret pointed out, seeing that an annoyed Henry was about to start an argument. She would much rather deal with an angry Elizabeth than an incensed Henry. 

“The word ‘must’ is not to be used by queens,” protested Bess, drawing herself up as if to make herself look bigger than her sister. “Queens do whatever they want.” 

“You are not a queen,” Margaret said coolly, shaking her head in slight exasperation. 

“Well, neither are you, so what do you know?” Elizabeth countered. 

Margaret puffed out her chest. “Soon I will be the Queen of Scots, and then what will you be?”

“The Queen of France,” claimed Bess, her eyes sparkling animatedly. “While you will be a queen of freezing winter, I shall be the queen of a gorgeous summer. While you will be married to an old man, I shall be married to a king who will be a dashing knight, like one from the old tales.”

Henry laughed at his two sisters before remarking, “Father will never allow that. France has been our mortal foe for hundreds of years. That’s why Arthur is marrying the Princess of Spain, Catalina, so we can fight against France and maybe even claim it for ourselves.”

Bess objected with a firmness that was atypical for a girl of her age, “No, Papa will want me to be a queen, so when the French king asks for my hand in marriage, he will agree.” 

“Has he done that recently?” Charles inquired, masterfully turning his snort into a sniff. 

“Only in her dreams,” Margaret quipped, causing the boys to dissolve into a fit of laughter.

Elizabeth glared at them and turned away with a huff. They could make fun all they wanted, but Elizabeth knew that she was destined for greatness, as her beloved mama assured her. She also believed that her father was a shrewd man who was eager to rise his dynasty to new heights. He would want all three of his daughters to be queens, and what better kingdom than France. She had heard about a long, devastating war between England and France, but she was not aware of any details. Furthermore, she was certain that whatever bad blood was between the two countries, it could be washed away like ice melted when spring returned, chasing away the bitter frost of winter. 

Pieces of the conversations Bess had recently heard between her father and her grandmother, Lady Margaret, came to her head all at once. _The new King François is of my age and is unmarried. He may be my destiny!_ Nevertheless, her mind drifted back to what Henry had mentioned about the enmity of the two countries. She then thrust these thoughts aside, for Elizabeth would frequently take Henry’s words with a grain of salt. France would want England tied to their family. 

Elizabeth could envisage her glorious future. One where she would be a resplendent queen of an equally dazzling court. From the stories she had heard from her governess who had traveled to the French court when she was younger, the princess was sure that France was exactly a perfect place for a queen like her. She knew little about the Valois court and French traditions, but she was confident of her ability to make everything she touched as glittering as jewels in a crown.

The princess turned her head when she heard bells ringing and shouting from the outside. 

“Today, on the Feast of St Peter Damian, the Queen has been delivered of a healthy prince!” 

_A baby brother, just as I hoped for,_ enthused Elizabeth in her mind. It must be a sign from the Almighty that her dream of becoming the magnificent Queen of France would come true. 

All of the children soon forgot about their game as they had a friendly debate over whether or not their new brother would be named Edmund or Edward after their paternal and maternal grandfathers, respectively. They did not care that the whole of England was rejoicing over having a second spare to the throne – instead they were simply exhilarated to have a new playmate. 

ξξξξξ

At the same time, King Henry VII of England was on his way to his wife’s rooms. The queen’s ladies-in-waiting all curtsied to their liege lord as he appeared in the antechamber. 

“My wife,” he breathed, and as they all nodded towards the bedroom, he almost ran there.

King Henry was not an easy-going man who smiled often and spoke a lot. In fact, one could count the number of times he smiled on two hands and still have fingers left over. However, after his wife, Queen Elizabeth, had birthed a third son, the monarch was practically beaming with gaiety as he strode into his consort’s rooms, waving his hand to dismiss her ladies.

Queen Elizabeth rested on a huge bed canopied red velvet, embroidered with Tudor roses. Her face, though fatigued, had an elated look as her gaze locked with her husband’s. Despite her tiredness, Elizabeth of York glowed with a beauty that no physical loveliness could create. They had been married for years, but she remained the same lovely English rose, with fair hair and pale skin, Henry had quickly become enamored of after their first meeting. _I shall love her forever,_ the king mused.

The queen’s large bedchamber was furnished with expensive oak furniture. Its walls were draped in Flemish tapestries portraying many biblical scenes, which now accentuated the stateliness of Elizabeth’s face that was as dignified and irradiant as that of the Madonna with the child from some masterpiece. A fire danced merrily in the brick fireplace, and the Tudor coat-of-arms hung over it. 

“Have I done well, husband?” Queen Elizabeth teased as King Henry settled himself by the bed and examined the baby swaddled in a blanket. The child nestled in the crock of her arm. 

A radiant smile upon Henry’s face transformed the monarch into a caring man whom only his wife and his mother saw in the moments of his happiness when his reign was undisturbed by Yorkist attempts to regain the throne. Clad in a plain doublet of brown satin and matching hose, Henry was tall, slim, and quite attractive, although lines of age and of fatigue marred his countenance, for he had not slept during his wife’s long labor. _My Henry, my beloved, must be very tired,_ Elizabeth inferred. 

The ruler’s smile widened. “Very well, my dearest, I daresay that you have done wonderfully, better than I could have hoped for,” he lauded, finding himself overcome with absolute jubilation. He was not even sure that he had been so sentimental since Arthur’s birth. “You have made certain that our legacy shall never die out. Should we name him Edward after your father?” 

Elizabeth’s cheeks turned pink at the glowing praise her husband had heaped upon her. It was times like this that she remembered he had not wed her only out of duty. Oh, that is how he described it to his mother when she complained, insisting that marrying Elizabeth was a purely pragmatic move. He always said that the two cadet branches of the House of Plantagenet must be united for the sake of peace, to put an end to the Cousins’ Wars that had been raging for far too long. 

Nonetheless, when they were alone, Henry would whisper sweet nothings into her ear, murmuring how he hoped their daughters would be majestic queens, just as their mother had always been. Elizabeth of York had not participated in the political life of England, for the king’s mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, and Henry had ruled the realm since his ascension all those years ago. However, from time to time, Henry had asked his wife’s opinion and listened to her with interest.

He loved her, and she loved him. Politics be damned. They had chosen each other.

“My Bess,” Henry called, breaking his spouse out of her musings, giving her a half-bemused, half-concerned look. “Does that name not please you? What is wrong?” 

“No, no, it does, but it just....” Elizabeth trailed off, endeavoring to put her thoughts in order as she glanced down at her son. She wondered if he would look more like a York than a Tudor. How would she feel if her son started taking after both his namesakes: her father and her poor unfortunate brother, King Edward V, who had disappeared in the Tower of London together with Prince Richard? She did not want to think of her little brothers every time she said her son’s name. “Edmund would be better suited for him. After all, it is a Tudor name.” It was the name of Henry‘s father after all. 

“That is true,” the monarch concurred, staring down at his son with his normally stern expression softened. “He is Prince Edmund Tudor, Duke of Somerset, then.”

ξξξξξ

Soon Lady Margaret Beaufort appeared in the queen’s quarters. Her wrinkled face was long and slightly haggard, betraying her age, but her thin lips were curved in a small smile as her gaze fell on the crib where Prince Edmund rested. Her genuine smile warmed her cold features. 

As usual, today Margaret was garbed in a high-necked gown of black damask without any ornamentation, her hair hidden beneath a white gable hood. While her appearance could give the wrong impression of a frail and old lady, if one were to look into her almond-shaped, hazel eyes, they would see the sharpness of her gaze, always calculating, as if she were trying to figure out the ulterior motive of everyone she came into contact with, and always watchful, as though on alert for danger. 

The Dowager Countess had a thin frame, having only went through one pregnancy in her entire life, despite her several marriages. She held herself in an exclusive, haughty way members of royalty did. When she had been younger, many people had thought she was too proud, not realizing that she had the right to act that way because God had told her that one day, her son would ascend the throne of England. She had stood tall over those who had labeled her as delusional for believing that Henry Tudor would ascend on the throne, knowing that she would be proven right in the future. 

And she had. Her son had become king, and his dynasty was growing stronger.

The ruler’s mother was pleased to learn of her newest grandson, but she was not too happy with the name selected for the new prince, for it brought memories of her unhappy first marriage. Years ago, Edmund Tudor, Earl of Richmond, had been given the wardship of the nine-year-old Margaret, and he had taken her as his wife after the annulment of her first matrimony with John de la Pole. _Why couldn’t I have married Edmund’s brother instead? Jasper Tudor would have waited to consummate our marriage until I was old enough to conceive,_ Margaret bemoaned. 

Margaret shook her head, scolding herself for such thoughts. Edmund might not have been the best husband, but times had been tumultuous back then. Besides, through that union came England’s greatest king: her son Henry. Regardless of her personal feelings for the long dead earl, Edmund Tudor had been the start of the Tudor dynasty as much as she had been, so he deserved to have a grandson named after him as much as Margaret felt that Jasper was a much better person. 

Margaret told her daughter-in-law, “Well done, Elizabeth. Very well done.” 

“Thank you, Lady Margaret.” Elizabeth’s voice thinned to barely a breath. The king’s mother always had such an effect on her – as if Margaret were the force paralyzing her mind and body. 

“Another son!” Henry was gleeful. “I could not have imagined it! God is too generous!” 

Elizabeth sent her husband a smile. “I’m glad that I’ve pleased you so, Henry.” 

The monarch stood up and then eased himself on the edge of the bed. Kissing his wife’s hand, he articulated, “The Holy Father has blessed our family, dynasty, and England because I married you, Lizzy. Our union brought peace to our country that was ravaged by civil wars for decades.” 

Margaret stood in the room’s center, contemplating them with an impenetrable countenance. “Henry, I’ve always known – perhaps since the moment you were placed in my arms by a midwife all those years ago – that your destiny is to create a new great dynasty in England. You saved the kingdom from the utter destruction that could have been caused by that Crookbacked Usurper.” 

Henry shifted his scrutiny to his mother. “You have always been right.” 

Unbeknownst to them, Elizabeth thought back to the day of her last meeting with her beloved late mother at Bermondsey Abbey. Elizabeth Woodville had passed away in less than a year after her daughter had been told about the Dowager Queen’s dreams. Elizabeth of York missed her mother a great deal, her sorrow still deep and intense, although she concealed it well from her Tudor relatives, who were not bereft, unlike her sisters and her half-brother – Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset. 

The queen disliked such conversations between Henry and his mother. Destiny… Margaret had never admitted the possibility of failure of her mission to make her only son King of England. In their opinion, the Tudor star shone too brightly in the heavens, and the Creator had spoken to her. But what about Elizabeth’s brothers? Had they been destined to perish in the Tower at a young age, perhaps in a cruel way? _My three sons… What fates will they have?_ Elizabeth mused fearfully. 

Margaret approached the crib and eyed the child. “He is a bonny and finely-formed baby.” 

“Just as Arthur and Harry were in infanthood,” Elizabeth stressed.

Margaret pivoted to her daughter-in-law. As their gazes locked, Elizabeth didn’t avert her eyes, as she often did. This time, the formidable Margaret failed to subdue her spirit. They had a complex and strange relationship: they both respected each other, but they had never been close. Elizabeth was too kind and gentle, like a delicate flower, to counter her mother-in-law’s overbearing personality. 

“Indeed,” said Margaret dryly. Yet, she smiled at Elizabeth with a cordiality that the queen had not seen before. “You have done your duty to the Almighty to secure the Tudors on the throne.” 

The queen was unwilling to speak about this. “I’m simply happy to have a healthy child.” 

“Me too.” Henry gifted another grin to his spouse. “We are now safe!” 

“Talk to you soon, son.” After casting a warm glance at her grandson, Margaret exited. 

Margaret Beaufort spent the next hour in her apartments. After dismissing all of her maids, the monarch’s mother knelt at her _prie dieu_ in her bedroom, her Book of Hours clasped in her hands. She opened it on the page dedicated to St Margaret, her patron saint, and prayed for her grandchildren. 

With three princes of the blood, the Tudor dynasty was unlikely to be in danger of going extinct on the male side. That was if her foolish eldest grandson managed to sire heirs. Henry was determined not to admit another civil war, and, hence, he believed that it would be better if his younger sons were sent to the Church – a pure waste in Margaret’s opinion, not to mention asking for trouble if that Spanish princess turned out to only be able to have weak male heirs, like her parents had done.

History knew examples when dynasties ended, or when dynastic crisis led to bloodshed on a wide scale. King Philippe IV of France, known as the Fair and the Iron King, had left three sons, none of whom had produced any surviving male progeny. The Salic law had prevented the daughter of Louis X, whose paternity had been questionable, from becoming Queen of France, and then the House of Valois had claimed the French throne. This situation had resulted in the Hundred Years’ War. 

There was no Salic law in England, but no woman had ever occupied the throne. Centuries ago, Empress Matilda, daughter of King Henry I of England and wife of Geoffrey V, Count of Anjou, had fought for her claim to the throne against King Stephen of England. The bloody Anarchy had lasted for years until Stephen had consented to make Mathilda’s son, Henry Plantagenet, his heir. They could not allow to have another Anarchy, so the Tudors needed as many male heirs as possible. 

Yet, thoughts of politics distracted her from prayers. Margaret closed the Book of Hours and crossed herself. “Merciful Lord, please safeguard my son and his children – all of them! It was Your divine wish to put them on the throne, and I beseech you to watch over my Henry and them all.” 

Margaret placed the book upon a nearby table in the corner. Her dark quarters were furnished modestly. Only a bed, draped in crimson silk embroidered with the crest of the House of Beaufort, glowed like a red ball in the sky during sunset. The floor, walls, and ceiling were a dark colored wood that matched the massive, mahogany furniture dating back to the middle of the 15th century. 

_We desperately need an alliance with Spain, but…_ Inexplicable alarm shot through Margaret at the remembrance of Prince Arthur’s betrothal to Catalina de Aragón. The only surviving son of the Catholic monarchs – Isabella de Castile and Ferdinando de Aragón – had passed away two years earlier, leaving them with only daughters to inherit their countries, which would undoubtedly in time be fought over by their future grandsons.

Arthur was too soft, and there was no guarantee he would not die without an heir of his own. It would be much more prudent to marry little Henry and Edmund just in case the dynasty match between the Spanish princess and Arthur proved to be as bad as Margaret suspected it could. 

Suddenly determined to have her son see sense, Lady Margaret left her apartments alone and sought him out. Despite the entire court celebrating Prince Edmund’s birth, Henry went to his study, going over preparations of his son’s lavish christening, and Margaret followed him. 

The king looked up, nodding his head respectfully, gesturing for her to sit down. The study was paneled with carved oak, the background being painted red, white, and green – the Tudors colors, on which were painted the heads of Henry VII’s Lancastrian ancestors and Tudor roses. 

“Mother, what can I do for you on this blessed day?” Henry quizzed in an uncharacteristically soft tone. He knew his mother better to assume that she merely wanted to congratulate him.

“With three sons, our kingdom is secure, but if we want to keep it that way, we must be prepared for every eventuality,” Margaret began, deciding not to beat around the bush. “What happens if God forbid Arthur dies while the remaining heirs to the Tudor line are all confined to the Church?”

He pointed out, “Mother, we have discussed this before. England cannot have another civil war. I don’t need to remind you of what happened to the three sons of York.” 

Edward, George, and Richard of York had once been three brothers who had stood together, bounds stronger than iron until they had started squabbling amongst each other. At first, Edward IV had had no choice but to execute George, and after his own death, his brother had usurped his teenaged son’s throne. Lust for power had twisted at first George and then Richard of Gloucester. 

“And you think your sons would do the same?” Margaret asked incredulously. Surely, he did not think that his sons, boys of his blood, were capable of turning against one another.

“As you put it, I must be prepared for every outcome,” Henry answered, his brow creasing in concentration. “Don’t get me wrong: I understand that there is a chance that Arthur might not have an heir, but I think we have a few more years to cross that bridge. Perhaps later, I’ll look for a bride for Edmund, but until then I shall focus on getting Arthur ready to be my successor.”

“Very well, my son, if that is your final word on the matter, I shall not speak of it again,” she told him, working hard to keep the disappointment out of her tone. 

_At least, Henry has not made his mind up about Edmund yet,_ Margaret ruminated with relief. After all, Edmund was almost fourteen years younger than his eldest brother, and by the time he would reach a marriageable age, Arthur would hopefully already have become a father himself. Margaret had always put her trust in the Almighty that her son would be King of England, and now she must trust that He would bless the Tudors and keep them on the throne, preserving their male heirs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers and friends! We hope you are safe and cheerful in these difficult days! 
> 
> As we promised, there will be many unusual twists in this story. This chapter is posted to honor Lady Margaret Beaufort on another anniversary of her death on the 29th of June 1509. 
> 
> One of them is the untimely deaths of Louis XII of France and Queen Anne de Bretagne, as well as Louise de Savoy’s regency during her son King François I’s minority. Louise could not become her son’s regent just because she wanted it because, according to ancient French traditions, the closest male relative to a ruling young monarch becomes his regent. After Louis XII’s death, the closest male relative was Pierre II de Bourbon, Anne de France’s husband (also known as Anne de Beujeu, Anne and Pierre were co-regents during Charles VIII’s minority). Thus, we have the meeting of the Estates General (French: Les États Généraux) that is a legislative and consultative assembly of the different classes (or estates) of French subjects. 
> 
> Another twist is the survival of Elizabeth and Edmund Tudor, who both died in childhood in history. We hope that you like the scene with the Tudor children and the scene between Henry VII and Elizabeth of York. Undoubtedly, Elizabeth and Henry loved each other very much, although their marriage served the purpose of uniting the Houses of Lancaster and York. Lady Margaret Beaufort is portrayed as a formidable, pious, and commanding woman who cares a great deal about the future of her dynasty and whose forward-looking thinking allows her to understand that the two younger male heirs – Harry and Edmund – cannot be confined to the Church. There will be no demonization of Lady Margaret in this story. 
> 
> Attention: we changed the age of Elizabeth Tudor – in this AU she is born in 1494. 
> 
> In the Middle Ages and Renaissance era, people lived according to the Church calendar, from feast to feast. Therefore, we have references to feasts and holy days to recreate historical atmosphere of the time. The Feast of St Fabian is on January 20; the Feast of St Eystein is on January 26; the Feast of St Aiden of Ferns is on January 31; the Feast of Saint Peter Damian falls on February 21. 
> 
> We say sorry to King Louis XII and Anne de Bretagne (Anne of Brittany), whose early deaths were necessary for fictional purposes. There is no doubt that Louis XII was a capable monarch who was loved by his subjects, despite his unsuccessful Italian campaigns. 
> 
> Many thanks to our friend who provided invaluable assistance in editing the story.
> 
> Yours sincerely,  
> VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance


	3. Chapter 2: Even Kings are Mortal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In England, King Henry VII's death starts a chain of events that threatens to fracture the Tudor family. In France, the Valois royals are involved in state affairs, clashes, and amours.

**Chapter 2: Even Kings are Mortal**

**_April 21, 1509, Richmond Palace, Surrey, England_ **

King Henry VII rested upon a bed canopied with masses of burgundy silk ornamented with the Tudor heraldry; the walls were swathed in brocade of the same color. He was abnormally thin, his skin as pale as ashes. The monarch glanced towards the windows overlooking the River Thames. He kept staring at the blue sky for a long moment, as if he could find his late queen in the heavens. 

“My last spring,” Henry murmured to himself. “Perhaps my last day…” 

He shivered despite his fever and coughed blood into a handkerchief. He had no illusions: he was dying of consumption. His health had been deteriorating steadily since Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales, had perished in 1502. He and Elizabeth of York had been desperate for another male heir, shaken by their son’s sudden demise. Elizabeth had birthed a daughter, but grew sick with childbed fever. Both she and the babe passed away not long after, shattering the king’s heart into pieces. 

_It is a miracle that I’ve managed to survive for so long,_ Henry lamented silently. _Without my Lizzy, my life has become a living hell, and every day has been a torture._ After Elizabeth’s demise, he had made half-hearted plans to remarry and beget more heirs at his mother’s insistence, but these never came to anything. Nobody would have been able to replace Elizabeth of York in his heart. 

“Send for my sons,” Henry choked out before descending into a coughing fit. 

His groom, who sat in the corner of the room, shot to his feet. “Yes, Your Majesty.” Then he was gone, asking another groom to fulfill the king’s order, and returned to his place. 

By the time Henry’s cough subsided, both Prince Harry and Prince Edmund had entered. 

“My sons!” Henry scrutinized both of them. “Don’t come close.” 

“Father!” chorused Harry and Edmund, not forgetting to bow despite their worry about him. They had to stay a few feet away from the dying monarch in order not to get infected. 

Prince Harry, as he was called by his Tudor relatives, was now a man of seventeen. With a broad face, a slightly pouting mouth, and small aquamarine eyes, Harry was a tall and handsome man who exhibited the best of the York features, resembling the late King Edward IV. Harry’s doublet of emerald velvet adorned with diamonds, over which was set a mantle of black taffeta, attested to his penchant for extravagance. He examined the recumbent form of his father anxiously. 

At this moment, the Prince of Wales, whom Harry had become upon Arthur’s passing, was a tangle of emotions – pain from losing his parent and fearful anticipation of succeeding his father. His eyes darted around the room, looking everywhere but the monarch, for Harry felt as if he were standing in the shadow of death. _I crave to become king, but I am afraid,_ the prince admitted. 

Prince Edmund’s blue eyes shone with unshed tears. Very slim, he was tiny compared to his elder brother, but his face was a bit pudgy, as if he had not lost his baby fat. Unlike Harry, Edmund wore somber velvet attire worked with threads of gold. He longed to embrace his father, but Harry put a restrictive hand on his shoulder. _I do not want to lose our father,_ Edmund bemoaned. 

Kings Henry rasped, “You are both growing into the finest Tudor princes.” His gaze was riveted to his heir apparent. “Harry, I leave England in your hands from now on. I pray that you will rule our great country justly and wisely. Never forget your duty to serve _your kingdom_ well.” 

“I will, Father, I swear.” Harry’s voice was dripping with conviction. 

The dying monarch shut his eyes for a moment, sighing grievously. Harry’s promises did not ring false, but the old ruler knew that his son had a radically different view of what made a good king compared to his opinion. _I pray that Harry will learn to take his responsibilities seriously,_ the sick monarch mused. Henry decided not to press the issue now because it was far too late to lecture Harry. After Arthur’s death, Henry had been more concerned about keeping his new heir safe and healthy rather than preparing him to hold the reigns of rulership with iron hand and prudence. 

King Henry continued in a weak voice, “Harry, take care of your brother and your sisters, who will need your guidance and support. I’m leaving a substantial burden on your young shoulders, but you are a Tudor, and our dynasty always copes with all trials and tribulations that befall us.” 

“Your legacy will live on,” assured Harry, a flash of determination in his eyes, “through your sons and your future grandsons.” His mind briefly toured to the Spanish Infanta – his Catalina. 

The old man’s eyes traveled to his youngest son and studied the boy. Clearly, Edmund was fighting tears, closing his eyes for a split second, as if his eyelids were like a damn preventing the flood of water from leaking out and dripping down his cheeks. The ruler winced at the realization that he would not see Edmund reach manhood. _I arranged a marriage for Edmund according to my wife’s wishes. Lady Elizabeth Grey, the heiress of Viscount of Lisle, will be his spouse._

Feathers of gentleness touched the monarch’s exhausted countenance. “Don’t weep for me, my son. I am not worthy of your tears, Edmund.” His tone was soothing. As the youngest of the Tudor brood, it was hard not to treat Edmund as if he were still a babe in his sainted mother’s arms. 

An errant tear finally trickled down his cheek, and Edmund enunciated, “Father, you are the sun of the whole court and England! Without you, our world will be engulfed in darkness.” 

Their father contradicted, “Nay, for now there are two lights burning brightly – you and your brother. Harry will rule England, and when you grow up, you will be his right-hand man and his advisor.” It was Henry’s most sacred dream that his sons would be united in everything.

Harry averred, “You are the great Lancastrian sun, one who established peace in England.” 

King Henry nodded before imploring, “Promise me that you will support each other no matter what happens. King Edward the Forth and his brothers, George and Richard, stood together only to let their ambitions and emotions get the better of them, eventually turning against each other.” 

Harry and Edmund were as different as day and night. Thus, the monarch could only hope that this would not cause them to fall out at some point. England could not afford another civil war. 

“We promise, Father,” Harry replied for them both. 

An optimistic Edmund assumed, “We will be like the heroic brothers David and Jonathan, who shared a great friendship described in the Bible, one built on faith during troubled times.” 

“Very well said, Edmund,” appreciated the monarch, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. His mother often complained at how bookish Edmund could be, yet admiring that from a young age, the boy had the heart of a true scholar thirsty for learning, and his mind was like a steel trap when it came to the knowledge Edmund absorbed. “I give you both a father’s blessing.” 

“Thank you, Father,” the Prince of Wales answered, his grief close to the surface. 

“We love you so much!” Edmund brushed away another tear. 

“I love you both, too, my sons.” Today the reticent and usually detached king allowed his feelings to overwhelm him. With that, he sent them away, calling for his daughters to come next. 

ξξξξξ

“Damn my illness,” King Henry cursed after the end of another long coughing fit. 

The groom, who watched over his liege lord day and night, took the handkerchief, which was stained with blood, from the monarch’s hand. “Does Your Majesty need something?” 

“Only to see my daughters,” the ruler barely got out, pain soaking through his lungs. 

“I’ve already sent for them, sire.” The groom then returned to his chair. 

Henry’s mind drifted to his daughters. At present, Margaret was the Queen of Scots, heavily pregnant with her third child, and even if King James had let her, she would not have been able to arrive in time to see her father. So, only Elizabeth and Mary entered and bobbed awkward curtsies. 

The monarch smiled wanly. “My princesses, you have both grown so much. You are no longer girls, but almost women. You are both credits to your mother and England.” 

Mary murmured in a voice colored with heartache, “Father, don’t leave us.” 

“It is God’s will.” Again, Henry thought of his wife and their reunion in the afterlife.

Like Edmund, Mary longed to approach and envelop her father into her arms. Yet, Elizabeth clasped his sister’s hand firmly in hers, whispering something comforting into her ear.

Elizabeth shifted her scrutiny to their parent. “We shall make you and mother proud, Father.” 

The king praised, “Your mother and grandmother raised you as proper ladies.” After a pause, he supplemented, “Bess, my last gift to you is ‘ _the Vaux Passional.’_ You remember that I ordered this illuminated manuscript from Flanders after your mother’s death. Now it belongs to you.” He gestured towards an ebony table at the other side of the room, where the religious book lay. 

The groom walked from the corner to the table. He took the book and neared the princesses, but he halted keeping distance away from them, for the man had spent too much time with their sick sovereign. “This is for Your Highness.” After handing it to Elisabeth, he returned to his chair. 

Elizabeth held the manuscript tightly, as if her life depended upon it. She and her relatives prayed for their departed family members using ‘ _the Vaux Passional’_ after its arrival from the Low Countries five years ago. She adored the beauty of this manuscript that contained thirty-four large miniatures, each elaborately illuminated in the Flemish style. As her gaze fell on the picture of Henry VII and his children mourning for Elizabeth of York, her throat was clogged with grief. 

“I shall treasure it for the rest of my life.” Elizabeth’s voice was trembling. 

However, Mary experienced a heavy dose of jealous pique, for their father had gifted the book to her sister. But Bess was closer to the English ruler, especially after Elizabeth of York’s death, partly because she was their mother’s namesake. “Father, we shall always have you in our hearts.” 

The monarch marveled at the differences between the two girls. While Mary was a dainty girl, having slight build and not very tall, Elizabeth was a tall creature of indomitable energy and talents. Elizabeth’s green pools sparkled like emeralds when she was joyful, while Mary had blue eyes, just as most of her siblings had. In many ways, they both looked like their mother, graceful and sweet, eyes full of affection and pain as they beheld their dying father in these moments. 

Henry’s scrutiny focused on his eldest daughter. A girl of fifteen, Elizabeth Tudor resembled an enchanting mermaid from some ancient myth, her long and glossy red-gold hair arranged in a bun and concealed beneath her gilded French headdress. Her gown of brown damask, slashed with black satin, emphasized Bess’ well-shaped curves. _Vibrant colors suit Elizabeth more, but she is already in mourning. Surprisingly, my mother permitted her to wear a French headdress_ , he observed. 

The ruler addressed his eldest child. “My Elizabeth, you shall be the Queen of France, just as you dreamed. Try to keep the peace between your future husband and brother. Harry’s ambition might make the French alliance tricky, and your mission is to keep it from being destroyed.” 

Around the same time Catherine de Aragón had arrived in England, the French ambassador had delivered missives from Louise de Savoy, regent of France, and Princess Anne of France, a member of the Regency Council, seeking to make a match between a Tudor princess and the French boy-king. Henry chuckled to himself as he remembered how Bess had come to his study, kneeling in front of him and entreating to consent to this betrothal, fulfilling her very heart’s desire. 

Arthur’s death had put the matter on hold for a year. Due to the cooling of their relations with Spain, the English monarch had started considering a French alliance. Once Isabella of Castile had died, her husband, Ferdinando de Aragón, refused to send the rest of his daughter’s dowry, and it had pushed Henry to render his final decision. Then his mother had journeyed to Calais in order to meet with the French party, where they had signed _the Treaty of Calais_ of 1504, which contained new trade rules for the two countries and the terms of Princess Elizabeth’s marriage to King François. 

“I shall do my best, father,” Elizabeth pledged. 

The king gazed at his youngest girl. “My sweet Mary, you will be married to Duke Charles of Burgundy, the future King of united Castile and Aragon. Maybe one day you will be Holy Roman Empress.” It pleased him that all three of his daughters would be consorts of powerful rulers. Yes, the Tudor dynasty would continue to rise high. “You are all destined for greatness.”

“Oh Papa, I love you so,” Mary breathed, tears flowing from her eyes. 

“Hush, little one, it will be fine,” her father promised. “Look to your brother for guidance.” 

To the girls’ horror, King Henry resumed coughing, this time far more violently. He motioned for his daughters to follow into the antechamber, where their brothers awaited them. 

Henry’s life was ebbing away like a winter tide retreating gently for the last time. Memories of his family life inundated his brain in colorful pieces. One of them soared above the others: the moment of his confession to loving his late spouse, who had answered that she had reciprocated his sentiments. The happiest moment of the old monarch’s entire life! His breath was getting shallow, but the image of a smiling Elizabeth of York transformed into a clear picture in his head. 

“My Lizzy,” whispered the ruler with contentment, his strength fading quickly. 

Mary and Elizabeth exited; Bess pressed the book _‘The Vaux Passional’_ to her chest. 

ξξξξξ

In half an hour, the herald announced, “Today, on the Feast of St Anselm of Canterbury, it is time to mourn. King Henry the Seventh is dead! Long live King Henry the Eighth!”

This utterance echoed like a mourning dirge through the hearts of the Tudor siblings and Lady Margaret Beaufort. As the deceased ruler’s illness had been progressing, the much-reduced court had moved to Richmond Palace, erected on the site of the former Palace of Shene in 1501 and named after Henry Tudor’s erstwhile title – Earl of Richmond. Those few nobles who resided in the palace crossed themselves, overcome with a sense of excitement for the new monarch’s ascension.

* * *

**_June 11, 1509, Palace of Placentia, town of Greenwich, England_ **

The wedding of the young King Henry and Catherine de Aragón took place on the Feast of St Barnabas the Apostle in the church of the Observant Friars in Greenwich. The ceremony was private and subdued, but no expense was spared for splendid festivities in the late afternoon. 

The newly wedded royal couple sat proudly under a canopy of purple silk emblazoned with the Tudor escutcheons. As fingers of darkness touched the earth, the great hall was illuminated by a profusion of candles, and the tables were placed in a rectangular form. The Tudor family were seated at the royal table on a dais. A group of the new monarch’s young friends – Charles Brandon, Sir William Compton, and Sir Francis Bryan – and other courtiers – occupied several lower tables. 

The king, who no longer liked being addressed as Harry, kissed his wife’s hand. “Catherine, my Spanish rose, you are more beautiful than the most exquisite flowers in the world.” 

Catherine de Aragón blushed, but she was grinning. “Your Majesty is so romantic.” 

“I am always Henry for you,” he amended in the ardor of feelings that swept through him like a windstorm. “You are my gift from heaven! You will be shining with me at the Tudor court that I will make sumptuous and cultured, just as it should have been before.” 

“Henry,” she breathed, taking her hand in his. “I shall always be at your side.” 

Once more, the monarch planted a kiss on her hand. “And I’ll be at yours, my _Catalina_.” He laced their fingers. “Together we will make England greater than ever before.”

A torrent of beautiful words erupted from her mouth. “No! I am _Catherine_. My heart, soul, knowledge, and life fully belong to England and the House of Tudor.” She glanced across the table, her gaze embracing all the members of the royal family. “You are all my relatives now!” 

Nonetheless, only Princess Mary replied, “Welcome to our family, Your Majesty!” 

Accolades were heaped upon the newlyweds by all those in attendance. Charles Brandon and Francis Bryan were the most vocal guests. His face illuminated by a lewd grin, his muscular body clothed in tawny silk doublet and hose, Bryan admired the queen, as well as Princesses Elizabeth and Mary, who both lowered their eyes whenever his hazel gaze of a rake landed upon them. 

The twenty-three-year-old Queen Catherine was the center of attention. Of a fair complexion, she had almond-shaped blue eyes, lush lips, and small nose. Her gown of cloth of gold, designed in the Spanish grand and unrevealing fashion, shimmered like a necklace of diamonds and rubies on her bosom. Her long auburn hair was a little visible beneath a gem-studded gable headdress, made in the form of triangular arch over her forehead and side lappets trailing down the side of the face. 

Bryan exclaimed, “For Their Majesties’ happy and long marriage!” 

“Long reign to our beloved King Henry!” Brandon brought his cup to his lips. 

Edmund, as usual taciturn, chimed in, “Long live King Henry and Queen Catherine!” 

Mary exclaimed, “For the future children of King Henry and Queen Catherine!” 

Numerous goblets were emptied and refilled. More delicious victuals were distributed, and plates groaned under their weight. The guests enjoyed boar meat, roast tongue, roast beef, meat pie, venison, pork, capon, teal, gull, peacock, stork, heron, egret, gannet, heron, sugared almonds, and vegetables cooked with fish. The gastronomical variety was incredible, and the old courtiers found it irrational, accustomed to the late King Henry VII’s court that had been moderate in everything. 

_Harry is expressing his affection for Catherine so openly!_ Elizabeth fumed inwardly. When Henry had declared weeks ago that he would marry the Spanish princess as it had been the previous king’s dying wish, Edmund had pointed out that their father had said nothing of the sort. Margaret Beaufort had objected most vehemently, accusing Catherine of lies about her virginity. Henry had been furious, but determined to marry his brother’s widow no matter what others said. 

When Queen Catherine glanced at Bess with a curious countenance, Elizabeth smiled at her, and her brother’s wife responded in kind. Elizabeth carefully masked her vexation with a smile of faux delight, laboring not to grind her teeth at the sight of that conniving Spanish whore. 

_Her union with Arthur must have been consummated!_ Elizabeth was certain of that, and these thoughts were nagging at her for a long time. _Arthur, God rest his tender soul, said that, and while he might have exaggerated a few details of his first time, he would not lie to us all._ However, Catherine claimed that Arthur had not performed his conjugal duties because he had been too sickly. The pure-hearted, virtuous Catherine would never say such falsehoods about her first marriage. 

Or would she? Perhaps the woman craved to obtain the queen’s crown that would soon be placed upon her head after the upcoming joint coronation of Henry and Catherine. No wonder the former Dowager Princess of Wales was in festive spirits, for she was now the Queen of England, just as she would have been if Arthur had lived. Elizabeth could barely contain her disgust watching Henry fawn over Catherine. _The inbred bitch has wrapped Henry around her finger, and he acts like a lovesick fool, hanging off of her every word as though it were the gospel. It is so sickening!_

To Bess, Catherine was a hypocrite, pretending to be a pious and demure woman, while in reality being an ambitious and deceiving shrew. Again, Elizabeth compelled herself to smile when Catherine turned to converse with Mary, whispering jests to her and making Mary giggle. Anger surged through Bess at the thought that the Iberian shrew would attempt to steal her little sister. Just because she was leaving for France in a year did not mean that Catherine could take her siblings. 

King Henry’s teasing voice jerked Elizabeth out of her musings. “Sister! Liz! Why are you being so quiet? It is not like you have become as somber as Edmund usually is.” 

Sipping her wine slowly, Elizabeth used a moment of silence to clear her head before uttering, “Forgive me, brother. I am just waiting for the tables to cleared, so we may dance.” 

_I hate lying, but I have no choice,_ Elizabeth mused sadly. She could not voice her true opinion about his bride in Henry’s presence. He fancied himself in love with Catherine, but Bess had a feeling that his love came from a place of being denied her, which caused him to desire her more. 

The monarch grinned widely. “Ah, don’t you worry, dear Liz. Soon we will be dancing the night away,” he gushed in a jovial tone. “Perhaps Charles would be kind enough to be your dance partner, while I shall be dancing with my lovely wife.” His gaze went to his queen. 

Catherine chortled. “I am looking forward to this, Henry.” 

Mary grimaced. “Why can’t the princesses choose their partners themselves?” 

Elizabeth discerned her younger sister’s mood swing. Mary would never forgive her if Bess had danced with the man Mary was enamored of, but they could not tell Henry that. “Although I am certain that Lord Brandon is an excellent dancer, I would hate if the French ambassador reported to King François that his future spouse danced with another man.” The next moment, she realized that her explanation meant she could not dance with any other man excluding her brothers. 

Catherine commented, “I don’t think that he would be troubled by such a notion as the French court has loose morals when it comes to reputation of ladies of any age.” 

This made Elizabeth’s blood boil. _How dare Catherine judge a place she never visited just because her parents loathed everything French?_ The new queen was never shy about her hatred of France. According to Bess’ grandmother – the only other person who did not fall for the Spanish princess’ charm – while Catherine had acted as Spanish ambassador to England, she had had the gall to suggest that Elizabeth wed instead Infante Miguel of Portugal, the only son of King Manuel of Portugal and his first wife, the late Isabel of Castile who had died in childbirth in 1498.

Fortunately, her father had refused to break his word. Besides, King Manuel of Portugal had fallen out with Isabella de Castile and Ferdinando de Aragón after his son, Miguel, had been denied his inheritance de Aragón and Castile despite the seniority of the boy’s claim to these kingdoms. 

Although her temper spiked, Elizabeth proclaimed calmly, “King François must be the most virtuous and noblest man in the whole of Europe. His letters to me have been nothing, but courteous and polite. I’ll not shame him by dancing with another man so close to our wedding day.” 

Henry remarked, “I hope François knows how fortunate he will be to have you as his wife.”

“The money for my dowry has been set aside, hasn’t it?” inquired Bess innocently. “I cannot arrive in France with only half of my dowry, cheating my new family of what they are owed.” 

From her peripheral vision, Elizabeth noticed Catherine stiffen at the thinly veiled insult against her parents who had sent her to England with only half of her dowry, never transferring the second part. Luckily, the monarch did not comprehend what his sister had actually implied.

Henry guffawed heartily. “Be at ease, Liz. Those French snobs will have no reason to say anything bad about you. I’ll see to it that you fill the Valois coffers to their satisfaction. However, if they see something wicked in a simple dance, then they are fools.” His scrutiny flew to his best friend. “Charles!” He raised his voice so he could be heard over the chatter. 

Brandon looked at his liege lord from one of the lower tables. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Your first dance shall be with Elizabeth,” Henry commanded. 

“It would be my honor,” Charles acquiesced, bemused. 

“Now your fiancé cannot complain because I’ve ordered it,” asserted the monarch, sounding quite pleased with himself, as if he had solved life’s most compelling challenge. 

“Thank you, Henry.” Elizabeth barely abstained from rolling her eyes at him. She then shot an apologetic look at Mary, who shook her head at their oblivious brother. 

The celebration went on and on until a man in Beaufort white and blue livery arrived with a message from the Lady Margaret, requesting that Edmund is brought to her. 

“My grandmother snubs my wedding,” King Henry snapped, glaring at the messenger as if he were the one to blame. “And now she dares make demands of me.” He was not screaming only because he did not wish to ruin the buoyant atmosphere of the festivities.

“I beg Your Majesty’s pardon,” started the page, “but the Dowager Countess has taken ill today, and she is desperate to speak to the Duke of Somerset as soon as possible.” 

The monarch grumbled, “I do something she doesn’t like, and suddenly Edmund becomes her favorite.” Yet, he nodded at his brother, signaling that he could go if he wished. 

Edmund stood up and bowed. “Thank you.” He was glad to depart. 

ξξξξξ

Edmund followed Margaret Beaufort’s page to her apartments. As he entered alone, his eyes adjusted to the paucity of light as only two candles were burning. After the late monarch’s demise, Margaret did not like a lot of light and would spend hours in her rooms in silence and prayers. 

The prince shuddered at the sight of his beloved grandmother in a bed draped in black velvet. Margaret Beaufort, Dowager Countess of Richmond and Derby, did not look like the poised, fierce, stern woman she had been even before her son’s funeral, during which she had remained stoic, but her soul had been broken forever. The ebony furniture magnified Margaret’s visibly gloomy mood, while the large size of her bed stressed the fragility of her body, clad in gray silk night clothes.

“My lady Grandmother,” greeted Edmund formally, sketching a bow. 

Margaret beckoned him to her. “My dearest grandson, you are the only hope for our dynasty. That new king is an idiot! He has broken God’s law by marrying his brother’s widow, and he will doom his father’s legacy because of it,” she ranted, her eyes conveying her melancholy.

Edmund approached the bed and froze. He knew that both his grandmother and his middle older sister detested Queen Catherine, although in Elizabeth’s case, Edmund suspected that it had more to do with a terror that Catherine might replace her in her siblings’ hearts. Henry and Mary absolutely adored Catherine, while Edmund liked her well enough, for after Elizabeth of York had died, his brother’s new wife had acted as a mother to him and Mary whenever she was around them. 

Nevertheless, Edmund was shocked that Harry had lied about the late king’s dying wish that he and Catherine should be married. It was callous to use their parent’s demise to get what Henry desired the most. Harry had endeavored to wave his falsehood off as a mere device to make his father’s persistent councilors stop badgering him about marrying Eleanor of Austria instead. _All this does not sit well with me, but I’ll not press the matter any further. What can I do about it?_

“Pope Julius the Second granted a dispensation for them to marry,” Edmund pointed out. “Regardless of our feelings towards their marriage, it was sanctioned by the Catholic Church.” 

There was a rueful scoff from Margaret. “Only because the girl lied about not consummating her union with our poor Arthur. Her Spanish relatives could have instructed her to do so.” 

“I suppose.” Edmund wished to change the subject without being rude. 

“That girl is no more a virgin than I am,” Margaret sneered, pausing for a moment to drag a deep breath that created knots of pain in her stomach. “Mark my words, Edmund. Because of his folly, Henry will never sire an heir and might destroy the realm. It will fall to you to fix it.” 

It surprised Edmund that Margaret spoke as if she had forgotten that Harry had once been her favorite grandson. “I don’t know what to think, Grandmother.” 

The old woman prophesized, “I believe that you will succeed Henry to the English throne. So, I must ask you to be a king like your father – a highly capable and prudent ruler.”

Edmund gaped at her in consternation, for these words were treasonous, and he prayed that no one was eavesdropping upon them at the moment. At the same time, he could not deny Margaret’s plea as she might be dying – the woman was too weak, causing Edmund’s heart to constrict. “If our liege lord dies without an heir, I swear that I shall strive to be a monarch like my father was.” 

“Good boy,” complimented Margaret with a semblance of a smile. “Have courage, Edmund! You will have to overcome many hardships, but you will survive, for you are cautious and strong. You are also clever, partly because you spend too much time with your nose in books. You have my late son’s spirit as well as his mind – I feel it and know that you shall rise high.”

“Yes, Grandmother.” A sense of incredulity encompassed the prince. 

“Now go, Edmund.” Margaret closed her eyes, feeling that her days were numbered. 

“Good night. I’ll pray for your recovery.” Edmund bowed and backed away to the door. 

In the corridor, a perplexed Edmund wobbled slightly, and Hal Courtenay rushed to him. Hal had excused himself and left the great hall, then waited outside Margaret’s suite. 

The only son of William Courtenay, Earl of Devon and his wife, Catherine of York, Hal was a year older than Edmund. Hal had entered Edmund’s household three years ago, having become the prince’s favorite; they studied together and shared tutors. A teenager of muscular and tall build, dressed in rich green doublet and hose, Hal had a bonny countenance with blue eyes that he had inherited from his grandmother, Elizabeth Woodville, just as most of the Tudor siblings had done. 

Hal supported Edmund with one hand. “Is Your Highness all right?” 

“Yes, I am, Hal.” Edmund stepped away, demonstrating that he was indeed fine. 

“Will you return to the feast or to your apartments? They are still celebrating.” 

“I need to be alone.” The prince hurried away; Hal trailed after him. 

As they prodded through the hallways towards Edmund’s quarters, the Duke of Somerset could not help but ponder Margaret’s tirades. Would Henry ruin the kingdom? His brother could be impulsive and stubborn, but he had pledged to their late father, just as he had exchanged vows with Catherine. Henry would not break them, or would he? Nevertheless, a worm of apprehension was gnawing at Edmund, as if foreshadowing his future frictions with the current ruler. 

* * *

**_August 30, 1509, Château d’Amboise, Amboise, the Loire Valley, France_ **

The morning sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows. The weather was warm, and the smell of gardenia, roses, and other blossoms drifted on the breeze that blew into the chamber through the open windows. Louise de Savoy, the Queen Mother, and the young King François sat at the heads of a table, along which the members of the Regency Council were seated. Princess Anne de France was present without her husband as Duke Pierre de Bourbon had passed away in 1503. 

Louise opened the Council. “Your Eminence, what of your treasury reports?” 

Two members from the notable House of Amboise were included in the Council. They were Georges, who had once been Louis XII’s chief minister, and his nephew, Charles.

Cardinal Georges d’Amboise, the current Lord Chancellor, responded, “The state treasury is full. As always, no provinces delayed the payment of taxes in the previous months.” 

“We lowered tax burden substantially,” speculated Louise. 

Charles d’Amboise had been appointed France’s prime minister by Louise for his talents and thanks to Georges’ recommendations. “Our new edict of Lyon will curb corruption in the law.” 

King François averred, “It was done to let the people have more equitable decisions rendered by local magistrates, regardless of their status in the society. The commoners welcomed it.” 

Louise tipped a nod. “Yes, they did, and they love you for it, son.” 

The monarch eyed his mother affectionately. “You composed most documents, Mother.” 

Louise flashed her son a cordial smile. “Her Highness Princess Anne and I together.” Her gaze flicked to Anne de France. “We all worked on both of the ordinances we issued.” 

Anne de France, commonly known as Madame de Beaujeu, looked as cold and impenetrable as a marble statue. “The country needed these reforms for the sake of our nation.”

Everyone eyed Louis XI’s daughter. Anne had aged: now her face had a network of wrinkles at the sides of her eyes and a permanent crease on her forehead. After Pierre’s death, she preferred dark colors over vivid ones. Today her ensemble consisted of a high-necked gray and black gown, embellished with diamonds, her hair tied with a jeweled fillet, accentuating her gloominess. 

Louise’s scrutiny shifted to her royal son at the opposite head of the table. Her heart fluttered in raptured admiration: François had grown into a young, strong, and remarkable man. At fifteen, the monarch had an expressive countenance that could be serious, sardonic, and magnanimous all at once. His dour handsomeness was enhanced by his amber eyes, mischievous and clever, and by his chestnut hair that fell along the thin sides of his face from beneath a plumed cap of purple velvet. 

_My son is very handsome,_ Louise effused in her mind. _The only imperfection on his face is his long Valois nose, just as his late father, Charles, had. No one will ever doubt his royal origins, for he took little after his Savoy ancestors._ From early childhood, François endeavored to be the epitome of magnificence every day, especially when he appeared in front of his court. Ornamented with sapphires, his doublet of purple brocade, wrought with gold, was slashed with lavender silk.

François jested, “The magistrates must be upset with the juridical changes. Now they have to be properly qualified and earn their positions instead of buying them like clothes and whores.” 

The nobles laughed at the monarch’s joke. Only Anne frowned at François. 

“These reforms,” started Antoine Duprat, who was a French cardinal and also a member of the Council, “ultimately transformed the country from a feudal one into a more powerful kingdom.” 

An impish glint entered the monarch’s eyes. “Well, perhaps I am immortal like mythological salamanders. Ah, by the way, I shall have all of my châteaux decorated with them.” 

“With your personal emblems, son,” retorted a grinning Louise. 

All those in attendance nodded vigorously, while Anne smiled rather wanly. 

“Your Majesty, you are the salamander of France,” began Jacques II de Chabannes, Seignoir de La Palice. In addition to being a member of the Council, he had been made Grand Master of France. “You can withstand all fires, so you ought to reclaim the Duchy of Milan.” 

Louise glared at La Palice. “My son is too young for war.” 

Jacques pointed out, “Your Grace, His Majesty has me and His Grace de Nemours to lead his troops. We can also see a great martial potential in young Anne de Montmorency.” 

Gaston de Foix, Duke de Nemours and maternal nephew of the late King Louis XII, opined, “Only His Majesty can decide how to act.” Yet, he surreptitiously dreamed of Italian campaigns. 

François scanned Jacques and Gaston in turns. In the past three years, he had often discussed martial strategies and tactics with both of them. Gaston had taught him a lot about the methods of winning wars applied in ancient Rome, in particular making an emphasis on the military genius of Gaius Julius Caesar. Jacques had frequently debated with the king over various battles of the Hundred Years’ War. _I shall reclaim my rightful Italian inheritance, but later,_ vowed François. 

Anne objected, “Remember the reckless wars of my late brother, Charles. Despite my love for him, I cannot deny that he was not a competent commander and eventually lost everything that he gained in Italy, leaving the kingdom with a huge debt that we redeemed only two years earlier.” 

Jacques stressed, “I fought together with the late King Charles the Eighth in Italy years ago. I must agree that there is a lot to be considered from our mistakes and failures.” 

Louise ordered, “Monsieur de La Palice, stop inflaming the passion for wars in my son.” 

François switched to the agenda. “My mother’s regency was calm,” he summed up. 

During the ten years while Madame de Savoy and the Regency Council had ruled France, the country had not been involved in any conflicts. Peace led to prosperity: the economy flourished, and many cities expanded. As the king had been raised in accordance with traditions of Renaissance humanism, Louise had favored intellectual migration from the Apennine peninsula, considering Italian Renaissance the ideal model for France’s cultural revival, and her son shared her views. 

The Ordinance of Blois of 1499 had been created without François’ participation because the monarch had been too young back then. This document regulated the French Church, judicial, and financial affairs, also establishing the redaction and codification of many customary laws throughout the kingdom. The royal edict had considerably reduced the corruption within the judicial system. Reduction in taxes without diminishing the income of the state treasury had been accomplished mostly through economies such as decreasing pensions and stricter control of the fiscal system. 

The Ordinance of Lyon of 1509 further improved the legal and juridical systems. These reforms had made Louise a popular regent and created the image of the fair and just King François, who was hailed by his subjects despite the fact that he was involved in state affairs only since last year. _Unlike ten years ago, now I have the love of the French people and the overwhelming support of the nobility. I no longer need Anne de Beaujeu to govern,_ Louise speculated with satisfaction. 

Louise continued, “That is beneficial for the county and our subjects. Peace has reigned, so we do not have to fund expensive foreign wars, although we still maintain regular armies.” 

Looking at the regent of France and his liege lord, Charles supplied, “We must be at high alert because France is encircled by the Trastámara and Habsburg domains.” 

Georges quizzed, “Are our armies guarding the borders, as always?” 

Gaston reported, “Of course. Our troops are stationed near our borders, with a concentration in the south because of the Spanish threat. The soldiers are all well trained and equipped.” 

The regent asked, “In case of invasion, we will be able to repel it?” 

Nemours confirmed, “Yes, we will. Since I was appointed to control France’s military, I’ve been extremely wary of the Houses of Habsburg and Trastámara. Although Charles von Habsburg is a boy of ten summers, his Aragonese grandfather poses a threat to France in the south.” 

Anne drummed her fingers across the table. “Ferdinando de Aragón longs to annex Navarre.” 

Charles reminded, “France is allied with the kingdom of Navarre. Prince Henri d’Albert, son of King Jean III of Navarre and Queen Catherine, is betrothed to young Françoise d’Alençon.” 

“Monsieur d’Amboise,” the regent addressed the royal chief minister, “you arranged this marriage that will cement the Franco-Navarrese alliance.” Charles nodded at her. 

François glanced in the direction of the windows. The weather was so sunny and warm that he yearned to go hunting with his friends. “My cousin, Françoise, will be able to marry the Navarrese prince not earlier than in five-six years because he is only eight years old now.” 

Anne decided that it was high time for her announcement. “About weddings! My beloved daughter, Suzanne de Bourbon, recently married Duke Charles d’Alençon in a private ceremony.” 

Shock instigated Louise to bounce to her feet. “What?” 

The King of France enjoined, “The meeting is over! Everyone must leave!” 

Louise’s glower impaled Anne. “Everybody, save Her Highness.” 

“And except for both of Monsieurs d’Amboise,” requested François. 

The councilors complied, understanding that they would quarrel with Anne. 

ξξξξξ

François and Louise both glared at Princess Anne, whose gaze remained as smooth as water in a lake in windless weather. Charles and Georges d’Amboise watched them from the sidelines. 

Grappling with nervousness, Anne dithered. The intense ire she had never seen before in the eyes of Louise and François terrified her, but her outward composure was perfect. “My daughter’s marriage to His Grace d’Alençon was sanctified and consummated at Château de Chantelle.” 

Louise experienced disappointment and alarm. “The Regency Council and I recognized your Suzanne as her father’s heir of the Duchy of Bourbon.” She crossed herself. “When His Grace de Bourbon died, we supported Suzanne’s inheritance rights and issued letters confirming them.” 

The Princess of France ran her eyes over a series of expensive tapestries depicting Rome and other Italian cities, which her brother, Charles, had purchased during his campaigns on the Apennine Peninsula. “I am grateful, Louise. But haven’t I done a great deal of good for France?” 

François joined the conversation. “More than enough, Madame. You and your late husband subdued all rebellious nobles during your co-regency. But who are you now: a Valois princess striving to strengthen the country, or a duchess wishing to create her own state within the state?” 

A shiver ran down Anne’s spine like a forebear of something bad. “Your Majesty...” 

The king pivoted to Charles d’Amboise. “Fetch the Duke d’Alençon and Montmorency.” 

Charles bowed in obeisance. “Your Majesty, please give me a few moments.” 

After he had left, they stood in a stillness that felt as perilous as fear of the unknown. François paced the room with simmering anger so intense that they could almost see it evaporating from him. None of them had ever seen the monarch so furious and yet controlling his naturally mellow temper. 

Cardinal Georges d’Amboise interrupted the pause. “If their marriage was consummated, it will be difficult to have it annulled, although it can be done on the grounds of consanguity.” 

“Perhaps we should contact His Holiness,” proposed Louise. 

Anne delivered a final blow. “I’ve procured a necessary papal dispensation.” 

Louise failed to contain her rage. “Your Highness takes too much upon yourself!” 

The king paused near the table and poured a cup of wine. “I’ll voice my decision soon.” 

“François, remember one thing.” Anne now spoke to the boy whom she had helped raise in a personal tone. “Holy matrimony is a bond that cannot be put asunder.” 

François drained the contents in one gulp. “I am Your Majesty for you, Madame.” 

A tide of sentimentality washed over Anne. “Haven’t we spend enough time together during the past ten years? For the most part, I’ve lived at court and enjoyed our communication.” 

The king placed the empty goblet on the table. “You and my mother have both raised me, and your teachings have shaped me into the man I’ve become. But I am a monarch – don’t forget it.” 

The door opened, and three people entered. One of them was Charles d’Amboise. The other two men were the Duke d’Alençon and Anne de Montmorency, François’ close friend. Stopping a few paces away from their liege lord, Alençon and Montmorency dropped into bows. 

Charles IV d’Alençon was six years older than François and the second prince of the blood in the line of succession to the French throne. A man of average built and height, his attractive face was remarkable despite the long Valois nose, his complexion not Valois saturnine one. Alençon had gray eyes and ash blonde hair, inherited from his late mother – Marguerite de Vaudémont. His doublet of cloth of gold and a pair of scarlet hose attested to Alençon’s eccentric taste in fashion. 

His features severe and angular, Anne de Montmorency had a martial bearing. His hazel eyes, brown stubble, and raven hair, hidden beneath a toque of black silk, matched Montmorency’s ascetic costume of dark velvet ornamented with silver. Loyal to François since he had become the king’s companion in childhood, Montmorency was only a year older, but he differed from his sovereign in not liking an additional flamboyance that François intended to bring to his already opulent court. 

François instructed, “Monty, tell us what you saw in the Duchy of Bourbon.” 

Montmorency looked at his liege lord as he informed, “I am under the impression that the duchy is ruled by a powerful feudal magnate. The populace of Bourbon love their king, but they hail the Dowager Duchess Anne more than their own sovereign. All the taxes are paid in time.”

Anne snapped in indignation, “Monsieur de Montmorency spied in my lands!” 

Ignoring this, the monarch uttered, “Thank you, Monty. You have done a great job.” 

Louise enunciated, “Son, I didn’t know that you had sent Monty to Bourbon.”

François collaborated, “Having my suspicions, I dispatched Monty on a special mission.” 

Montmorency apologized, “I am sorry for my failure to learn about the marriage.” 

The ruler glared between Alençon and Anne. “So, it was conducted in grave secrecy.” 

Charles d’Alençon attempted to defend himself. “Your Majesty, please let me explain–” 

“Enough, cousin Charles,” snarled François. “I understand very well why this wedding took place. I don’t have children of my own – so you, Charles, will ascend to the throne if I die.” 

A look of torment flashed across Louise’s features. “God forbid!” 

The others, including Anne, chorused, “God forbid, Your Majesty!” 

The monarch launched a verbal assault. “You two conspired behind our backs.” He pointed at the duke. “Cousin, you married Suzanne de Bourbon in secret because I would never have permitted this wedding to proceed. Perhaps you imagine my death and Suzanne as your queen.” 

“It is treason,” Charles d’Amboise pronounced with menace. 

Georges d’Amboise emphasized, “Not even a royal person can envisage a king’s death.” 

“I swear that I’ve never imagined it,” a frightened Alençon muttered. 

Anne’s inner realm was a cauldron of emotions. “Your Majesty, we have never had such thoughts. I arranged Suzanne’s union with His Grace d’Alençon as fate was not always kind to the House of Valois – we lost my brother and King Louis the Twelfth too quickly.” 

Louise accused, “Anne, you betrayed us to ensure that your daughter would become the Queen of France, or that her descendants would rule lest my son dies childless.” The regent swiveled towards the duke. “Charles, you are our relative, and you grew up together with François, but you repaid us with betrayal for all the affection my son and I have given you in abundance.” 

Alençon glanced between the king and his mother. “I love you both! I–”

François cut him off sharply. “I don’t wish to hear anything. You are both banished from court. You must return to the Duchy of Bourbon, but you cannot leave it.” 

“So, we will be your captives,” inferred an insulted Anne. 

The monarch shook his head. “You can freely live within your lands, but nowhere else. Your Highness, I demand that you have the feudal tendencies in the duchy reversed.” His voice rose an octave. “There will be no almost independent domains of any noble within France!” 

Anne lifted her chin defiantly. “You guaranteed my daughter’s ducal rights.” 

“Indeed.” François strode to the distant wall tapestried with scenes of Carthage’s demolition by the Romans. “But sometimes, small nations are annexed or destroyed by stronger forces.” 

Anne figured out her sovereign’s hint. _The boy has grown into a man. Over time, he shall become a strong ruler,_ she deduced. For the first time, she feared to have conflicts with François whom she remembered as a sweet and mannered teenager of high spirits and inexhaustible energy, thirsty for knowledge and asking Louise and her to hire new tutors from Italy, especially Florence. 

The regent promulgated, “We are taking your younger sister, Françoise, into the royal custody. Monsieur d’Amboise will collect the thirteen-year-old Mademoiselle d’Alençon from Normandy.” 

Charles d’Amboise dipped a nod. “As you command, Your Grace.” 

Alençon beseeched, “Your Majesty and Your Grace, I beseech you not to do this to me!” 

“You are dismissed,” barked François. “Pack your things – you both.” 

The Duke d’Alençon implored again in vain, but Anne led him away from the chamber. Louis XI’s daughter held her head high, her demeanor imperial, for she had never forgotten her origins. 

“Monty,” called François. “Let’s take Philippe de Chabot and go hunting.” 

After the king and his friend’s departure, Louise enthused, “I am so proud of my son!” 

Charles d’Amboise nodded. “His Majesty will become a great king!” 

“Will he forgive Her Highness and his cousin?” wondered Georges d’Amboise. 

Louise marched to a window and stared out into the gardens. “Even if he does, I will not.” 

Today the illustrious woman whom Louise had adored for years ceased being her ally and friend. _Anne de Beaujeu seems not to be plotting against François, but who knows what is going on in her head._ Despite knowing Anne for years, her thoughts remained a closed book for Louise.

* * *

**_September 18, 1509, Château d’Amboise, Amboise, the Loire Valley, France_ **

Although autumn was gradually encroaching upon the park, the weather was still balmy. King François and the Queen Mother, accompanied by Charles d’Amboise, strolled along the stone-paved path between symmetrical lawns extending in front of the château. The Amboise gardens were laid out in the Italianate style as a charming combination of immaculately clipped box balls and cones. 

Charles was always concerned about all possible threats to the monarchy. “Your Majesty and Your Grace, I am worried about the marriage of Suzanne de Bourbon to the Duke d’Alençon.” 

Louise de Savoy allayed, “Monsieur d’Amboise, your duty is to prevent infractions of the law and aggression against our family. This matrimonial charade is not worthy of your attention.” 

A baffled François paused. “Mother, they have both betrayed us!” 

Louise’s mouth lengthened into an acrimonious grin. “Do you really believe that your cousin will be able to get a healthy child off the sickly Suzanne? That is highly unlikely.” 

The king looked towards an alley of cypresses and pines. “Madame de Beaujeu rarely brought her daughter to court. I have vague memories of Suzanne.” 

“Alençon is healthy.” The regent gazed in the same direction. “I bet that Anne introduced her daughter to Charles who must be smitten with the lovely Suzanne who is as delicate as a spring flower. The prospect of being tied to Louis the Eleventh’s granddaughter and Anne’s persuasion swayed him to the wedding. But he has locked himself in a potentially childless union.”

“Why?” Charles relaxed at the sound of Louise’s confident voice. 

Louise elaborated, “A woman must have a strong constitution to produce a large and healthy progeny. Suzanne doesn’t enjoy good health. Anne suffered many miscarriages and birthed only two weak children; Anne’s son died over ten years ago. Her late sister, Jeanne, was sterile mainly due to her physical deformities, so King Louis the Twelfth repudiated her after his ascension. I wonder why all of Louis the Eleventh’s children had childbearing problems.” 

François recalled, “Princess Jeanne had a hump on her back and walked with a limp. Yet, she could be capable of childbearing: her marriage to Louis could have been consummated.” 

His mother smirked. “I am sure that Louis lied about its non-consummation to obtain divorce so as to marry Anne de Bretagne. Maybe he was with Jeanne once or twice, but not more.” 

The youngest daughter of Louis XII, Princess Jeanne, had been made Duchess de Berry by Louis XII in compensation for the nullification of their matrimony. After her retirement to Bourges, capital of the duchy, she had dedicated herself to monastic life and founded the Order of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The Vatican had supported her in these endeavors; Louise had transferred a large amount of money to the Order. Jeanne had passed away in 1505. 

Charles nodded at the Queen Mother. “I pray that Elizabeth of England is fertile.” 

Louise grinned at her son with a hint of mischief. “François, the late Queen Elizabeth of York birthed eight children, most of whom reached adulthood. The late Lady Margaret Beaufort wrote that your future queen is a green-eyed nymph with red-gold hair, robust and with a strong body.” 

The monarch took his mother’s hand in his own and led her towards the alley of cypresses. “I have the portrait of Princess Elizabeth, and she is indeed a stunning beauty.” 

Charles followed them. “Does Her Highness satisfy Your Majesty’s exquisite tastes?” 

“She does.” François smiled at them. “Many men vied for her hand in marriage, but the late King Henry the Seventh, God rest his soul, signed her engagement contract with France.”

Louise recalled, “Anne and I had a productive meeting with Lady Margaret in Calais.” 

Anne de France, who had concluded the Treaty of Etaples of 1492 with King Henry VII, had offered to have the young François betrothed to an English princess. Such a wedding could have strengthened the peace between England and France. In 1504, Louise and Anne had met in Calais with Margaret Beaufort. Within several days, the three ladies had reached an agreement about trade cooperation between the countries and the terms of François’ marriage to Elizabeth. 

Louise crossed herself. “God let Lady Margaret rest in peace. Her death saddened me. She was such a remarkable woman!” Louise had ordered many Masses for Margaret’s soul. “She died soon after the new King Henry’s wedding to the Spanish Infanta, Prince Arthur’s widow. Margaret wrote to me that she did not wish her grandson Henry to marry Catherine de Aragón.” 

“We cannot meddle into England’s internal affairs,” noted François, and Louise nodded.

“Lady Margaret Beaufort was a capable woman who could rule as a queen regnant in her own right,” concurred Charles. He had attended the meeting in Calais, having seen Louise and Margaret bond swiftly. “However, Lady Beaufort would not have approved of our court’s flamboyance.” 

Louise pattered her son’s shoulder. “Princess Anne frowns upon the lavishness we all love. She is a daughter of Louis the Eleventh who wore rough clothes and mingled with commoners and merchants. It is one of the reasons why I am glad that she is no longer at court.” 

François halted before grumbling, “I don’t wish to see Anne and my cousin anytime soon.” 

“Likewise, son.” An exasperated Louise averted her gaze towards the box cones they had passed mere moments ago. “At least, at present we have Françoise d’Alençon in our custody.” 

Charles pitied the girl whom he had brought from Normandy to court last week. “Well, Mademoiselle d’Alençon was not happy to part with her brother, but she seems reconciled.” 

The ruler genuinely liked his cousin’s sister. “She needs our attention now.” 

Louise remarked, “Françoise doesn’t approve of her brother’s unexpected marriage.” 

Their conversation was interrupted by the cry of Princess Marguerite, “François!” 

A smile flourished on the king’s visage. “Margot is coming!” 

Louise stepped to Charles. “We need to discuss other state affairs, son.” 

François bestowed a smile upon them. “Of course. Have a nice stroll.” 

The King of France watched his mother walk away with the French chief minister. A woman of thirty-three, Louise was still quite young, her skin smooth and without any wrinkles. Slender and fashionable in a rich dress of green and gold brocade trimmed with rhinestones and with sable on the sleeves, Louise looked attractive, much thanks to an air of regality about her and her grand style. 

Charles kept a respectful distance from the Queen Mother. A man of athletic build garbed in fuchsia velvet clothing, a golden chain suspending from his neck, Charles was not tall, so François towered over him despite being far younger. With his average face illuminated by his sparkling gray eyes, Charles, born into the House of Amboise, possessed the best qualities of a councilor. Before his appointment as the chief minister, he had been governor of Paris and of Normandy. 

Louise and Charles disappeared into the alley that meandered to the defensive wall near the River Loire, from where they would have a picturesque view onto the town of Amboise below the castle. _Are my mother and Charles d’Amboise so deeply in love?_ the monarch wondered. 

ξξξξξ

As Marguerite found François, her brother grabbed his sister like a feather and twirled her around. Their carefree laughter rang like a peal of bells through the air. The Valois siblings had a very close relationship since their childhood, always together and feeling deep mutual affection. 

“Put me on my feet, my frolicsome brother!” demanded Marguerite. 

The king jested, “Only if Your Portuguese Highness truly wishes it.”

She pouted her lips in a world-weary way. “Don’t remind me of my wedding.” 

In spite of her sadness, at her seventeen, Marguerite with her saturnine attractiveness and dark hair, cascading down her back, looked as beautiful and fresh as a forest dryad. Her elegant gown of magenta rose satin was cut low in the French style and trimmed with diamonds, amethysts, and rubies. Her stomacher of cloth of gold, set with precious stones, gleamed like the vivid flashes of intelligence in her eyes, which she displayed in her frequents talks about politics and the arts. 

“Why, sister? According to our ambassador in Portugal, Infante Miguel is a good-looking teenager with pale blue eyes and blonde hair, who is fond of humanism and poetry.” 

Yet, her mood did not improve. “At least, he will grow up a cultured man.” 

François questioned, “Do you really want to be his wife?” 

Marguerite had mixed feelings regarding her future. “I shall always do my duty to France.” 

In 1501, the late Queen Isabella of Castile had written her will, in which she had bequeathed her kingdom to her eldest surviving _male_ descendant – the eldest son of Juana of Castile and Philip von Habsburg known as the Handsome – Charles. King Ferdinando had supported her: the Aragonese nobles had rebelled against him, demanding to guarantee that Aragon and Castile would not be united with Portugal in order not to be swallowed by the regime of the House of Aviz. 

Ferdinando and Isabella had faced a complex dilemma. Their eldest late daughter, Princess Isabel, had become Princess of Asturias following the sudden death of her only brother – Juan of Castile. Nonetheless, the massive revolt in Aragon had showed that Infante Miguel, Isabel’s son, could not inherit their countries. Therefore, Charles von Habsburg had been selected as their heir. 

An incensed King Manuel of Portugal had invaded Spain in revenge, but his forces had been defeated by Ferdinando. Soon Manuel had broken the alliance with Spain despite being married to Maria de Aragón. To spite his parents-in-law, Manuel had then allied with France, and the betrothal had been negotiated between Infante Miguel of Portugal and Princess Marguerite de Valois, who was six years older than him. Ferdinando and Isabella had been outraged by the turn of events. 

Marguerite sighed. “We still have several years before Miguel’s arrival for our nuptials.” 

Her brother looked pensive. “From a political standpoint, we need this alliance.” 

She pledged, “I shall create an extraordinary court in Portugal.” 

“The strict and pious Marie de Aragón might become your opponent, sister.”

“Certainly, she will dislike me, but I’ll cope.” 

Taking her hand, François led her to the other side of the garden. “We have to thank Charles d’Amboise for this alliance. His diplomatic and governing skills are truly excellent.” 

Marguerite verbalized her discovery. “Our mother is so taken with him!” 

“I don’t blame her for finding safe haven and delight in the arms of our chief minister.” 

“Are they lovers, François?” Her cheeks were stained with blush. 

“Most definitely. They don’t know that we know it; no one understands anything as they are careful. We guessed the truth because of our closeness to them and our observational skills.” 

Marguerite was embarrassed to discuss such intimate things. “You are not angry, brother?” 

François, who had already tasted pleasures of the flesh, comprehended Louise. “No; they are exceedingly discreet. It is difficult for our mother to be responsible for the country, our subjects, and us. Even the most unconventional women need male warmth, just as any ordinary ones do.” 

The siblings stopped near a group of oaks and birches. At their feet, the gorgeous flowerbeds were planted with a mixture of plants, including geraniums, roses, and salvias.

Marguerite was inexperienced in amours. “You understand women so well!” 

François shrugged. “I am young, but not stupid, sister, and I have a paramour.” 

She extracted a folded sheet of paper from her gown’s pocket. “I’ve come to give you the latest correspondence from England. Princess Elizabeth will benefit from your _sensual_ _knowledge_.” 

“And from my chivalry.” He impatiently took the letter, broke the seal, and read it, smiling. 

“Is it amusing for you?” Margot had already seen some of the previous letters. 

His laughter was jocund. “Knowing that we speak the French and Italian languages, Elizabeth started studying them four years earlier.” He then read the letter aloud, his grin widening. 

_Your dearest Majesty,_

_Your books by Pico Mirandola and Poliziano were the best intellectual gifts I’ve ever received. While reading them, I saw the Florentine art-loving spirits in these works. How I wish that humanistic principles become as widespread in England as they are in both Italy and France. I also practiced Italian, and I am happy that I could understand everything with ease._

_I finished reading the old French Chanson de Roland. It must be one of the greatest works of French literature! I adore the historical setting and all the characters in this epic poem, but the noblest Sir Roland’s death moved me so deeply that I could not sleep for a few nights. Your Majesty is as chivalrous and brave as Roland, but I pray that you will have a long and glorious reign._

_Remember what we agreed to do: to create a glittering and enlightened court in France with our subjects being like Sir Roland, all of them living in compliance with the code of chivalry._

_Otherwise, I’ve been fine, counting days until my departure to France in a year. My brother, Henry, transformed the Tudor court into a merry one, and I’m enjoying festivities and masques after the years of mourning for Arthur and my mother. Yet, I miss my late grandmother terribly and mourn for her in private. However, the Spaniards are not easy to deal with, and their arrogance is so excessive that sometimes, you crave to cleanse it with your own hand._

_Written by the hand of the princess who feels most bound to you and France._

_Princess Elizabeth Tudor_

François folded the letter and put it into a pocket of his doublet. “She is so well educated!” 

Marguerite opined, “Elizabeth has an idealistic impression about you.” 

“François! My François!” They turned to the source of feminine screams. 

Marie Gaudin, Dame de La Bourdaisière, was running along the garden path, as if she were flying like a bird. As her gaze fell on her royal lover, her gorgeous face resplendent in all the glory of its classical beauty lit up with a salacious grin. Garbed in a gown of scarlet silk, embroidered with diamonds shimmering like the lust in the king’s eyes, the slender and tall Marie personified a goddess of seduction. Born in 1492, she had become François’ first lover five months ago. 

Marie skidded to a halt and curtsied. “Good day, Your Majesty and Your Highness.” 

François sauntered over to his mistress. “Why are you so animated, Marie?” 

His paramour informed, “I am pregnant, my king! I am carrying your baby!” 

At first bemused, the monarch then exclaimed, “That is amazing news!” 

The ruler approached his mistress who stood next to a bed of jasmine. As her brother kissed Marie’s hand, conflicted emotions swirled inside Margot. She was glad that François was capable of having children, for the House of Valois needed more male heirs, but the situation also worried her. _How will Elizabeth perceive François’ dalliances? I need to urgently speak with mother, for we have to arrange a marriage for Marie Gaudin to hide her condition,_ Marguerite speculated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers and friends! We hope you are safe and cheerful in these difficult days!
> 
> In this chapter, King Henry VII of England dies of consummation on the historical date of his passing after having farewell meetings with his two sons and his two daughters. Just as it happened in history, soon Henry VIII marries Catherine of Aragon, and the couple are happy together now. The astute Princess Elizabeth has her own ideas about Catherine’s first union with the late Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales. Sadly, Margaret Beaufort dies quite soon after the wedding, having asked Prince Edmund, Duke of Somerset, to give her certain promises. 
> 
> We learn about the ten years of Louise de Savoy’s regency in France that is allied with England, Portugal, and Navarre. The fifteen-year-old François has been involved in state affairs for some time and has to deal with his cousin, Charles d’Alençon, who married his other cousin, Suzanne de Bourbon (the only surviving child of Anne de France, or Anne de Beaujeu, and Duke Pierre II de Bourbon) without the royal permission. The conflict within the Valois family leads to the banishment of Charles d’Alençon and Anne de France from court, at least for some time. 
> 
> France’s alliance with England will be cemented with the marriage of King François and Princess Elizabeth. The betrothed couple are corresponding, and Elizabeth’s letter reflects her dedication to the Italian arts and French culture, which François loves and cultivates in his kingdom. Pico Mirandola and Poliziano were both famous humanists of the Golden Florentine Renaissance and close friends of their patron – Lorenzo de’ Medici known as Il Magnifico. Elizabeth also reads French medieval romances such as the old Chanson de Roland. 
> 
> Perhaps you are astonished that Portugal, a traditional ally of the Houses of Trastámara and Habsburg, is now a friend of France. The reasons are explained in the chapter. France’s alliance with Portugal will be confirmed by the wedding of Princess Marguerite and Infante Miguel, the only son of King Manuel of Portugal and his first wife, the late Princess Isabel of Castile who died in 1498 (she was the eldest daughter of Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon). Just as it happened in history, Manuel’s second wife is Maria of Aragon. As Miguel was born in 1498, he is now 12 years old, while Marguerite, born in 1492, is now 17. 
> 
> In this AU, France’s historical alliance with Navarre exists and will be reinforced by the marriage of Henri d’Albert, the future King Henri II of Navarre, to Françoise d’Alençon, another Valois girl. We played with their age: with our modifications, Henri is born in 1501, while Françoise, born in history in 1490, is said to have been born in 1495 in this AU. 
> 
> So far, the French court is dominated by those nobles who had prominent positions in France during Louis XII’s reign. By 1516 (the historical year of François’ ascension), the French monarch will form his own court. We hope that you like the twist with Louise de Savoy’s personal life. The Tudor court will also be transformed, and new characters already started to appear. 
> 
> Many thanks to our friend who provided invaluable assistance in editing the story.
> 
> Yours sincerely,  
> VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance


	4. Chapter 3: A French Royal Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grand wedding of Princess Elisabeth Tudor and King François I of France takes place in Paris. Bess and François both face marital dilemmas, and the French court is brimming with intrigue and frivolity. Louise de Savoy has secrets as well.

**Chapter 3: A French Royal Wedding**

**_October 4, 1510, Palais de la Cité, Paris, France_ **

A reverent silence reigned in the Sainte-Chapelle, where a large audience had assembled this afternoon. The magnificent couple – King François I of France and Princess Elisabeth of England, both sixteen years old – knelt at the altar and linked their hands under the bridal canopy of blue and white silk, ornamented with the Valois heraldry and fleur-de-lis. The wedding ceremony was set on purpose on the Feast of St Francis of Assisi, the French monarch’s patron saint. 

Dressed in the grandest style, Louise de Savoy, the Queen Mother, and Charles d’Amboise, the chief minister, as well as Gaston de Foix, Duke de Nemours, stood behind them, acting as witnesses. 

Robed in clerical crimson vestment, Cardinal Georges d’Amboise led the ceremony, his voice droning on and on in Latin. After the introductory rites preceding a Mass, he invited the congregation to pray for King François, his bride, and peace between England and France. The French nobles, who mingled with a small number of the English ones, all prayed. Then the Liturgy of the Word followed. 

François bent his head to his bride. “Are you all right, Your Highness?”

“I’m fine, Your Majesty,” assured Elisabeth.

He caressed her palm with a thumb. “You are happy, aren’t you?”

Her gaze fixed upon his face. “Yes, I am. I’ve fallen in love with France.”

“Really?” His lips twitched as though he wanted to laugh, for his wife-to-be had arrived with her splendid trousseau and her English maids only a month ago, so she had not seen the country yet. 

“Yes. I like what little I’ve seen in France.” Her French was accented, but she knew it well due to the years of her rigorous studies of the beautiful language of her new home with her tutors. 

Louise neared them from the back. “You two ought to focus on the religious service.” 

The king shot his mother a look of annoyance, but he agreed, “Let’s do so.” 

The cardinal’s words flowed like holy water. Nonetheless, Elisabeth’s mind was elsewhere as she thought of her fiancé who channeled his energy into prayers. Her heart fluttered in her breast, like a swarm of butterflies, as she slanted a glance at him. Tall, saturnine, and handsome, François’ profile was like something chiseled in marble, save his long nose. _My whole life is like a clean page in France, and I need to start anew. Will François be my knight, just as I’ve dreamed?_

To distract herself, Elisabeth listened to the first reading from the Liturgy of the Word, which consisted of the Old Testament, then the second and third parts of it from the New Testament. 

_I am lucky to have my wedding here!_ the princess enthused. Still unable to concentrate due to her nervousness, Bess admired the majestic Gothic beauty all round her, which enthralled her. The most fabulous adornments of the chapel were the many stained-glass panes arranged across fifteen windows, each about fifteen meters high, as François quietly told her, depicting more than one thousand scenes from the Old and New Testaments and recounting the biblical history of the world. 

François caught the direction of her gaze. “Impressed?” 

“Profoundly,” whispered Elisabeth. “I’ve never seen anything like that in England, although the Canterbury Cathedral and the Westminster Abbey both possess stunning interiors.” 

He elaborated, “My ancestor, King Louis the Ninth known as Saint Louis, erected this chapel to house the precious Christian relics, including Christ’s crown of thorns, which he acquired.” 

She recalled this story from her history lessons. “Saint Louis was a great Crusader king.” 

Charles and Louise shared glances disapproving their talk, but they said nothing. 

ξξξξξ

After the Liturgy of the Word, the Liturgy of the Eucharist, a principal rite of Christian worship, was conducted. Lords and ladies knelt as Georges d’Amboise commenced the service. 

As Elisabeth gazed at François again, a mere sight of him took her breath away. She had seen the most recent portrait of him while in England, but François turned out to be more attractive and charming in reality. Ornamented with diamonds and sapphires, the monarch was accoutered in a rich doublet of purple velvet with blue and gold accents on a mantle of midnight blue silk, which he wore over it. A mass of his thick, straight, chestnut hair fell over his ears from beneath the azure silk toque. His hose of black silk accentuated his long, muscular legs; his girdle was of sapphires. 

Since her arrival, Elisabeth had spent quite much time with François, always chaperoned by one of her English ladies or by the monarch’s sister. They had discussed books, the arts, and the king’s plans to invite many painters, architects, and sculptors from Italy to France. She was amazed with her fiancé’s knowledge in humanism and classics. Her elder brother, Henry, positioned himself as a Renaissance prince, but he was not as erudite as François was. It pleased Bess that François enjoyed their intellectual debates, instilling hope into her for a bright future together.

Those in attendance exclaimed, “Praise be to the Lord Jesus Christ!”

 _Fortunately, I’m marrying a gorgeous king of my age,_ Elisabeth enthused as his fingers resumed caressing hers under the bridal canopy. Her older sister, Margaret Tudor, had become the wife of the Scottish monarch who was fifteen years older than her, but she was content with him. However, while the French king’s appearance and his youth pleased Elisabeth, the fact that she had spotted the fervent gazes of many noblewomen at the Valois court directed at François unnerved her. 

In a half-whisper that almost vibrated in his chest, François articulated, “The Eucharist is ritual commemoration of Jesus’ Last Supper with his disciples, at which he gave them bread.” 

This jerked Elisabeth out of her reveries. “It makes us closer to God.” 

Soon a communion rite took place. The gifts of bread and wine were distributed between the people. At last, an offertory prayer was recited, and the final rites ended the Mass. 

At the end, Georges crossed himself. “The word of the Lord! God bless France!”

The congregation chorused, “Thanks be to the Almighty! God bless France and our king!” 

Elisabeth whispered to herself, “Christ, to you I commend my life.” 

Louise de Savoy knelt and spoke, her head bowed low. “The Almighty, I beseech you to bless my son, our sovereign, for a long and glorious reign, and make his marriage fruitful and happy. For that and for France I pray all the time.” Charles then aided the regent to get to her feet. 

Elisabeth heard the monarch’s sister, Princess Marguerite, murmur as she crossed herself, “For France, the House of Valois, and for my beloved brother! The Lord save and protect François!” 

At Cardinal Georges’ signal, everybody stood up for the beginning of a marriage ritual.

_Dearly beloved, you have all gathered here so that in the presence of the Church’s minister and the community the intention of our king and his bride to enter into marriage may be strengthened by the Lord with a sacred seal. Christ blesses the love that binds His children together._

Georges requested, “In the presence of the Lord in the church, state your intentions.”

The cardinal questioned them about the bride and bridegroom’s freedom of choice, fidelity to each other, and so on. To all of these questions, Bess and François replied “I am” or “I have”.

The King of France and his bride again knelt, joining their hands under the bridal canopy. 

His heart hammering with a music of fascination, the ruler gazed into Elisabeth’s eyes. “I, François, take you, Elisabeth, for my lawful wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.” 

Elisabeth smiled radiantly, her nervousness vanishing. “I, Elisabeth, take you, François, for my lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.” Her whole being exuded sheer happiness. 

Cardinal d’Amboise pronounced, “I hereby declare you husband and wife.” 

As François slid the Valois diamond and sapphire gold ring onto her finger, a jolt of perturbation raced up her hands and spread through her limbs. Her hand relaxed at the sight of his jocund grin. 

A bubble of exhilaration formed within François as he viewed his bride from top to toe. Princess Elisabeth Tudor – now Queen Elisabeth of France – was a tall, long-limbed, stunning, and graceful nymph. Her regal bearing was admirably composed and alluring, capable of rousing sympathy even in those who still detested the English on the back of the swirling opaque shadows of the Hundred Years’ War, which at times rose in the Frenchmen’s memories to torment them like old wounds.

 _My bride is lovely,_ François assessed as his lascivious eyes traversed her face and figure once more. _More beautiful than Bess looks in her portrait._ As their gazes locked, her classical features were serene, yet shining with royal hauteur. Today Elisabeth was a picture of youthful beauty in her gorgeous gown of white brocade decorated with a great deal of diamonds and pearls, her stomacher of golden silk. Her red-gold hair, arranged in an intricate up-do on the nape of her head, was set off by a pair of inquisitive, pale green eyes that reminded him of green pastures in late spring. 

François purred, “Now you are my wife, Bess. You have an exquisite taste in clothes.” 

His wife blushed. “The French seamstresses did their work very well and quickly.” 

The ruler and his new queen accepted numerous congratulations and blessings. They led the procession out of the chapel that had witnessed many royal weddings since the 12th century. 

ξξξξξ

King François rose to his feet and promulgated, “I thank you for coming, my beloved subjects, to celebrate my wedding and the Feast of St Francis of Assisi, after whom I was named.” 

The regent of France declared, “Long Live King François and Queen Elisabeth!” 

“Long Live Their Majesties!” the huge congregation echoed like a thunder. 

“May the years ahead be filled with lasting joy!” Gaston de Foix affirmed. 

The monarch proclaimed in a vibrant voice, “I swear that I shall usher France into a golden era of prosperity and enlightenment. Saint Francis of Assisi said, _‘Start by doing what is necessary, then do what is possible, and suddenly you are doing the impossible’._ He was absolutely right!” François outstretched his arms towards the audience, as if embracing them all. “Gracious Lord, make my crown an effective instrument of accomplishments. Where there is hatred, let me sow love.” 

A round of applause and cheers resonated. Everyone listened in sheer awe, for it had been quite a long time since France had such a flamboyant, high-spirited, and clever monarch.

A profusion of candles illuminated the grand hall, or the _Grand’Salle_ built by King Philippe IV, known as the Fair or the Iron-King, in the 14th century. Outside, the sun’s disk was hanging above the Seine River, and the firmament was a vault of rich mauve, crimson, and orange velvet. 

The royal chaplain offered thanks for the Feast of St Francis of Assisi. Then everybody reached out for an astonishing variety of victuals set before them, each in elaborate decoration and on a golden platter. Hundreds of courtiers chattered merrily, drinking and eating rapaciously, and engaged in card contests beneath the chamber’s double nave, each covered with a high arched wooden roof.

All the tables were overflowing with significant quantiles of spit-roasted meat, venison, heron, roast tongue, pork, whale meat, pigeon compote, brain matelote, fatty chicken cutlets, rabbit, and deer. More food was served: all sorts of fish, roast eels with lampreys, salmon, whiting, haddock, bream. Dishes were dressed with gold or silver leaf, most of them drenched in sauces and herbs. 

François seated himself back into his gilded throne. “Your Majesty will get accustomed to my extravagant manners. You can attain any as long as you have the passion, drive, and focus.” 

Elisabeth, who was also seated in a similar throne, grinned. Yet, it surprised her that François, who had been courteous and official with her, remained formal even after their wedding. “While you are declaring peace with your lips, be careful to have it more fully in your heart.” 

“Don’t the Treaty of Calais guarantee the peace between England and France?” 

His response unnerved her. “Of course. Or it would not have been signed.” 

They did not notice the wary glances of Louise, Marguerite, Charles, Gaston, and Georges. 

A row of eight columns in the center of the hall supported the wooden framework of the roof. The medieval atmosphere reigned: walls were adorned with tapestries portraying tournaments, knights and their dames in many courtly love scenes, as well as a series of the arrases telling the history of the monarchial France from Charlemagne until today. On each of the pillars, and on columns around the walls, were placed polychrome statues of the Kings of France, including François’ statue. 

The French ruling couple and the royal family sat in the center under a canopy of white and blue silk, emblazoned with the Valois escutcheons, and woven in gold and fleur-de-lis. The royals and their closest entourage occupied an ancient table on a dais, made of black marble from Germany upon the orders of Philippe IV the Fair, who had frequented this palace. This rare thing was used for banquets, the taking of oaths, meetings of military high courts, and other official functions. 

Queen Elisabeth sat between her royal husband and Princess Marguerite, whom she had swiftly befriended. For her brother’s wedding, Marguerite had opted to wear a gown of lavender brocade, its sleeves trimmed with silver lace, her crescent stomacher of yellow silk decorated with precious stones. During the weeks before the wedding, she and the princess had conversed about literature and the Italian Renaissance, and Elisabeth found Marguerite as erudite and smart as her brother was. 

The other tables were placed in a rectangular form at lower levels, surrounding the royal one. Despite talking with his wife enthusiastically, François repeatedly cast glances at those who occupied them, his gazes lingering on his favorite mistress – Marie Gaudin, and another woman who attracted his attention tonight. All the members of the Regency Council occupied the places near the central table, with Charles and Georges d’Amboise sitting at Louise de Savoy’s both sides. 

Elisabeth collected salmon and haddock onto her platter. As her husband loved shrimps and lampreys, she tried them, too. “Where does Your Majesty usually reside – in the capital?” 

King François teased, “Such a bad memory of yours, Your Majesty. In the Loire Valley.” His platter was full of lampreys, shrimps, and oysters, but he was eating slowly.

“Yes, I recall that from our correspondence. Why not in Paris?” 

“There are few palaces in the Italian style in my realm,” complained François. 

Princess Marguerite chimed in, “Now we can live only in the Palais de la Cité in the heart of Paris or at the Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye near the city, where my brother and I were raised after his coronation. We detest the Château de Vincennes located not far from Paris.” 

Gaston explained, “The direct Capetian line ended at the Château de Vincennes.” 

Louise commented, “With the death of Charles the Forth. We should avoid this place.” 

“Even if it ever is refurbished,” Antoine Duprat, also a Cardinal, opined. 

Georges d’Amboise entered the conversation. “The castle in the town of Vincennes is grand, but it is not what Your Majesty likes. In addition, it is of course connected with bad omens.” 

The monarch glanced at his wife meaningfully. “Well, my queen’s and my mission is not to let history repeat itself.” He did not need to clarify that he meant the possible end of the Valois dynasty. 

“I understand.” Elisabeth comprehended that they would all wait for her pregnancy. 

“France needs a fertile queen,” Gaston stated with a directedness typical for him. 

Georges cried, “Your Majesties, may God bless you with a large brood of robust children!” 

Jacques de La Palice intoned, “For many Valois princes and princesses!” 

As Bess paled, compassion pulsated through Louise. She understood that Elisabeth already felt under pressure to produce male heirs. “Of course, it will happen. Over time.” 

Her daughter-in-law smiled at the regent. The others understood that the topic was closed. 

The king vowed, “My intention is to refurbish the Châteaux de Louvre and de Fontainebleau.” 

“When?” His warm breath was searing Bess’ ear. 

“We have a life ahead.” Mirth colored the ruler’s voice.” Aren’t we, Madame Elisabeth?” 

“We do, Monsieur François,” Elisabeth responded in the same mocking manner. 

For the first time, the two of them addressed each other by their names. 

The monarch sipped wine from his bejeweled goblet. “It is _our_ realm now.” 

“Yes!” cried the queen as she grabbed a goblet. “I’ve dreamed about it for so long.” 

Louise, Georges, and Charles traded glances, delighted that the couple were getting on well, especially given the ruler’s escapades. During the past year, François had bedded many noblewomen – married ones, widows, and virgins, his irresistible charm making their heads spin with infatuation that developed in their hearts for the ruler, only to be broken later by his abandonment of them. 

The monarch’s only constant mistress was Marie Gaudin, Dame de La Bourdaisière, who had continued serving Louise de Savoy as her lady-in-waiting. Upon Louise and the king’s orders, she had been married off to Philibert Babou, who had been elevated to Count de Sagonne because of her pregnancy with the royal bastard. Several months ago, Marie had birthed a healthy baby boy named Jean Babou, who was of course François’ son. _As soon as Marie recovered from the birth, François took her back to his bed,_ Louise recalled. _Marie will conceive again soon._

Marguerite tossed the contents of her cup down her throat. “The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams. We all dream about the arts and to make France enlightened.” 

Bess chewed some salmon. “Some people feel that their life is like a dream.” 

While eating a leg of pork, Louise interfered, “Does Your Majesty feel so now?” 

“Indeed.” Elisabeth emptied the goblet, regretting that it was not watered wine. 

Georges inquired, “Is our wine from the Loire vineyards better than the English ale?” 

“Oh, I drank and disliked it,” supplemented his nephew, Charles. 

“Stronger and more tasteful,” the queen pinpointed. “I’d like to eat something else.” 

François waved his head at a passing steward. “Proceed with a new course!” 

More dishes were delivered to the royal table and then to the other ones. This time, there were pheasant, vegetables, gingerbread, meat pies, tarts, and vegetable pies made in the form of a castle, all of them dressed with natural petals of white lilies – a symbol of purity and France. Most dishes were spiced with honey, pepper, nutmeg, mace, cinnamon, fennel, ginger, cloves. The candles in numerous candelabra, placed on each table, were aromatic and created intoxicating scents. 

Meanwhile, Charles d’Amboise moved the thread of the discourse to the arts. “As Your Majesty knows, I’ve corresponded with Maestro Leonardo Da Vinci for quite some time.” 

François shifted his gaze to the chief minister from his dish of pheasant dressed in lilies. 

“Maestro Da Vinci,” continued Charles, pausing for a split second to swallow a morsel of spit-roasted meat, “has been looking for a new constant employer both inside and outside of Italy.” 

Exhilaration brightened the ruler’s eyes. “Leonardo Da Vinci! I’ve always admired this genius and his works, but so far, I have only one of them in my private collection – it is the awesome ‘ _Virgin of the Rocks_ ’.” At the sight of his consort’s confused face, he explained, “This painting is one of Da Vinci’s early works commissioned by Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan. It shows the Madonna and the baby Jesus with the infant John the Baptist and an angel Uriel, in a rocky setting.” 

“The setting gives the painting this name,” concluded Elisabeth. 

Marguerite nodded. “Correct! Leonardo uses his special technique _sfumato,_ which allows the artist to masterfully blend the edges between colors so that there is a soft transition.”

Georges was enjoying a meat pie. “Maestro Da Vinci is the first painter to use this marvelous technique. Other artists endeavor to replicate it, but most of them fail.” 

“I am a military man, but even I heard about _sfumato_ ,” jested Gaston. 

A ripple of laughter rolled through them. A band of musicians began playing a quiet melody.

“Da Vinci is a true genius,” assessed Jacques de La Palice while chewing his fish. 

“ _Sfumato_ creates a very smooth appearance.” King François was done with pheasant, and then assembled on his platter provisions of whale meat and egret, all of them garbed in lilies. “I can offer the most lucrative commissions to have Leonardo work at our court. His versatile talents in drawing, music, painting, literature, sculpture, architecture, and sciences are exactly what France needs.” 

After taking a plate with vegetables, Charles informed, “Your Majesty, let me lure him to France with the pledge of great benefits. Maestro da Vinci is tired of working for the Vatican.”

Louise finished off her mallard. “Leonardo Da Vinci may launch the French Renaissance.” 

A smile graced the monarch’s visage. “A golden age of France’s culture.” 

Marguerite stuffed her mouth with a morsel of venison. After she had chewed it, she affirmed, “Great minds discuss ideas, average ones – events, small ones – only people.” 

Her brother feigned offence. “Sister, you are not implying that we are not intelligent.” 

Margot deadpanned, “How can I?! There is nothing small about Leonardo!” 

_My husband is so outspoken and art-loving,_ Bess noted to herself. An unconventional feeling of wonder seized her every time she looked at her spouse. She had seen many handsome nobles at the Tudor court, including Charles Brandon, her sister’s secret love, but they had not caused her heart to palpitate with odd reverence. François, with his arrestingly masculine, oval face and athletic, lean build, attracted her in a way that she had never known before, and this perplexed her. 

The monarch addressed his wife. “Now you are _Elisabeth de Valois_ , not Elisabeth Tudor.” 

The queen was astounded. “What are you implying, François?” 

With a hard glint in his eyes, the ruler forewarned, “You are the Queen of France, one who must be loyal only to your new country and our family, and one whose fealty is personally to me.” 

A stream of mind-wrenching questions preyed upon Elisabeth. Didn’t François trust his queen because she was English by birth? Did her husband still remember the Hundred Years’ War? Did he blame her for her ancestors’ misdeeds towards his own forefathers and his nation?

Bess quizzed forthrightly, “Do you think that I may be more loyal to Henry than you?” 

When he did not respond, a fire of defiance flared up in those pale green pools, which mystified and entertained François, and which he already adored. He had been told that his bride was like her mother, the late dignified Queen Elisabeth of York, although now he could see that she was somewhat feistier and more strong-willed, as his mother, Louise, had confided in him even before her arrival. 

”I can assure Your Majesty that I would never betray you.” 

His harshness faded away. “Excellent! I shall call you Bess.” His lips stretched into a cheeky grin as a flame of something akin to challenge and temerity glittered in his wife’s eyes again.

“I like it,” she replied. If François would accept her word, she would not press the issue.

While studying her, the monarch popped a morsel of egret into his mouth. _Elisabeth is not like other docile princesses. She has an untamed soul that longs to be set free and explore the world, but she cannot, given the constraints of her station._ With this discovery, he felt closer to Bess, despite them remaining virtually strangers. François thanked the Creator that his destiny was to rule the French realm, but he sometimes dreamed of the unknown, uninhibited life outside of his palaces.

The king whispered in a salacious undertone, “I cannot wait for the wedding night.” 

His queen blanched and reddened from such candor. “Oh, my Lord.” 

One of the tables was removed to clear the space for dancing. Couples assembled in this area to the left from the royal table, and Elisabeth noticed François watch intently a young and pretty woman with ash blonde hair, her clothes of silver brocade studded with gems, her neckline cut too low. A moment later, two columns of dancers faced one another, the men bowed, and the women curtsied before starting the steps of an energetic galliard. François was still staring at the same lady with a lustful expression that heightened as she executed leaps, jumps, and hops enticingly. 

Elisabeth asked her sister-in-law quietly, “Who is she?” 

Marguerite figured out that her brother found another object for his carnal desires. “My dear, François is a noble-minded man, but he is a monarch who delights in all kinds of merriment.” 

As François suddenly excused himself, Louise stood up and approached the queen. 

Bess was dumbfounded. “Where is he going and why?” 

Louise mannerly eased herself into her son’s throne. “François will invite you later, Elisabeth. As you see him, he is not among dancers, and he will not humiliate you in such a way.” 

The king went to a lower table where he conversed with Anne de Montmorency and Philippe de Chabot. Dressed in their finest outfits, the ladies who sat at this table stood up and curtsied. 

“When will he return?” Elisabeth’s scrutiny swiveled back and forth. 

Louise took her hand in hers. “You have to learn _tremendous patience and tolerance_.” 

“Of what?” As the meaning sank in, the queen gaped at her mother-in-law. 

“François is a young, virile king. _You have to endure_.” Louise’s tone was sympathetic. 

Bess felt like screaming in frustration, but she swallowed her rage, for her mother-in-law was trying to help her. “Is there any other choice? My father was always faithful to my mother.” 

“No, or at least not when my son is so young,” asserted Louise. 

Marguerite soothed, “Bess, you can enthrall my brother over time. Have faith!” 

Indeed, after the galliard had ended, the King of France invited his queen to dance a stately pavane. Losing herself in complex footsteps and in the plangent tune of the music, Elisabeth remained aloof when she encountered François who flirted with her. The decorous sweep of the pavane suited her melancholic mood, and now she did not want to dance a tourdion, a coranto, and a volta, which the queen had learned to perform while in England on purpose for the cultured French court. 

As the pavane drew to a close, the dancers exchanged bows and curtseys. 

François neared his wife and announced loudly, “We will proceed to the consummation, but we don’t need your presence. You may all celebrate in the great hall as long as you wish.” 

Elisabeth accepted his hand, grateful that there would be no public ceremonies of putting them to bed. She disliked how her late brother, Arthur, and Catherine de Aragón had been accompanied to a bedroom by their parents and many nobles, and the couple’s awkwardness had been apparent. 

Cardinal Georges d’Amboise came to them. “I shall bless the bed and then leave.” 

The king permitted, “Of course, Your Eminence. It might give us a _fruitful_ night.” 

At this hint, Elisabeth’s eyes flashed with ire. “My ladies will prepare me.” 

“Just don’t have any of them stay in your bedroom,” he said with a mocking lilt to his tone.

The three of them exited the _Grand’Salle_. Louise de Savoy joined them a few moments later. 

ξξξξξ

Stillness ensued in the quarters occupied by Queen Elisabeth of France. Lady Joan Bourchier, who was daughter of John Bourchier, Baron Berners, brushed Elisabeth’s hair until it cracked. Lady Elisabeth Somerset, who was daughter of Charles Somerset, Earl of Worcester, and Lady Mary Grey, daughter of Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset and Elisabeth’s maternal cousin, assisted the queen in changing clothes. The rueful demeanor of their mistress worried them all, but Bess kept silent. 

More than an hour had elapsed since Elisabeth and the others had left the celebrations. Cardinal d’Amboise had come to her chambers to bless the bed as per custom half an hour ago. 

By the time a full moon glittered in the dark sky bathing the treetops in the garden, which were seen from the windows, in a silvery light, the king’s wife was ready. She had selected an elegant night ensemble of white taffeta wrought with threads of gold, her robe’s sleeves trimmed with bronze lace. 

Lady Joan Bourchier admired her. “Your Majesty is so enchanting! You will charm the king!” 

“You are a queen, Madame!” exclaimed Lady Mary Grey. “I’m so happy for you!” 

Lady Elisabeth Somerset was also in high spirits. “Your Majesty’s dream has come true!” 

“Indeed.” Bess smiled. “I’ll not need you anymore tonight, so I bid you a pleasant evening.” 

The maids curtsied to her; their faces lit up by smiles. Then they vacated the chamber.

Elisabeth sauntered over to a marble table in the corner with a looking glass. For a long time, she peered at her reflection, wondering whether she was as captivating as the king’s other mistresses. The queen was a tangle of a maiden’s fears and a bundle of nerves. _Why does François need his lovers? Regardless of what he says, I am both a Valois and a Tudor. I shall withstand all trials._

Her bedroom was dominated by an enormous bed, canopied with burgundy velvet and boasting an ornately carved headboard with the Valois coat-of-arms, as well as an old stone fireplace. Her mother-in-law had told Bess that over two centuries ago, one of the daughters of Count Charles de Valois, the father of King Philippe VI who was the first Valois monarch of France, had lived here. The heavy oak furniture certainly dated back to the Capetian kings who had adored this palace. The biblical wall tapestries showed the scenes from the lives of the Virgin Mary and Jesus.

The sound of the opening door snapped Elisabeth out of her musings. “Good evening, Bess.” 

The queen swiveled. The monarch closed the door and entered with a measured gait. His night robe of black silk, worked with threads of Venetian gold, emphasized his athletic slenderness.

“You must have been awaiting me, Madame,” he teased with a roguish grin.

She retorted, “Your Majesty, I shall fulfill my conjugal duties.” 

His gaze traversed his wife’s appealing form as he halted beside her. “Ah, how dull!” 

“What?” Bafflement was etched into her features. 

More jests spilled out of him. “It is amusing that the girls are taught that marriage and enjoyment have nothing in common. That they are as far apart as starts are from earth, and even antagonistic to each other. I ordered a private consummation to avoid discomfiting you more, Elisabeth.” 

His concern warmed her. “Thank you; that is noble of you.” 

François yearned to touch her flaming curls. “It is rare when nature creates a flawlessly stunning woman, green-eyed and red-haired, who in addition possesses a clever brain.” 

“My late grandmother embodied virtue and female intellect.” 

The king’s face split into a grin. “Lady Margaret and my mother have a lot in common.” 

Her brows shot up. “You are happy about the Anglo-French alliance, aren’t you?” 

“I am,” he said honestly, his loins swelling with hunger. “Especially when I see you.” 

“Then don’t tell me that I am not a Tudor,” Elisabeth chastised. 

His laugh was boisterous. “You are my wife – nobody else’s, Bess.”

In the blink of an eye, the monarch enveloped his consort into his arms. Elisabeth was tall, but François towered over her like a giant, making her feel small and vulnerable compared to him. 

As they froze in this pose, a romantic poem flowed out of his mouth like a tempting tune.

_Outside the night, but in the cozy room_

_All is gleaming with light that brightly glints_

_On the alabaster skin of Elisabeth,_

_Lighting the dour complexion of François._

_Candles burn creating a slight brume,_

_Yet, presenting a glimpse of rosy heat_

_Seen by the charmed king in his wife,_

_Making his passion very large from petite._

_At last, the spouses embrace and kiss,_

_Finding themselves in marital bliss,_

_Candles watch them with amatory eyes_

_Until they all extinguish at sunrise_

_When the marital couple are happy,_

_Their souls entwined by their cries,_

_They meet the whiteness of the next day_

_Both of them reborn, as if in the skies._

_Rich-colored dreams of all beauties_

_Inundate them, superseding shadows,_

_A pang, almost of pain, runs through them_

_As they part, but never forever because_

_They are enclosed in the silken bliss._

When he lapsed into silence, his cheek brushed hers as François inclined his head to let his mouth capture hers. He dexterously unlaced her robe and stroked the smooth fabric of her nightgown. She permitted herself to snake her arms around his back, amazed by a whoosh of breath from him. 

After disentwining from her, François scrutinized her. “I hope that you like this poem.” 

Elisabeth tiptoed and threw her arms around his neck. “I do! Did you compose it?” 

“A few days ago for you, wife.” A gleam of laughter lit his eyes. 

This confession wiped away her former misgivings, albeit temporarily. “Really?” 

His demeanor turned facetious. “What a pity that you don’t believe your husband!” 

His playfulness transmitted to her. “Of course! You composed many poems for me in letters.” 

The monarch mocked, “Then, by all means, let’s make this poem our reality.” 

The queen breathed out a sigh of excitement as the king carried her to bed. As she lay on the feather-filled mattress, he nested next to her, his lips nibbling at her earlobe and lavishing her throat, while his hands stripped them both of the rest of their garments and tossed them to the floor. 

Under his intense scrutiny, an ashamed Elisabeth covered her breasts with her both hands, but her spouse removed them. “Don’t hide your beauty from me, Bess. We are married.” 

At the sight of his nude queen, a sensation of indescribable lust and wondrous togetherness swept over him as François admired his wife’s magnificent body, like that of the Greek Aphrodite, her breasts ample and pert, her waist slender and well-curved. In the candlelight, her skin glowed like molten gold, her long red-gold tresses streaming down her back to sway tantalizing across the tops of her shapely hips. His queen was bewitching the monarch like a siren’s mellifluous song. 

He placed her hand onto his naked torso with a dusting of brown hair. Her cheeks stained with pink, Elisabeth moved it down across his chest to his stomach and then stopped, looking up at him with wide eyes. Awfully embarrassed to touch him lower and see his arousal, she nonetheless perused his masculine physique, with those straight, slim shoulders and his nicely toned torso. His expression became lordly and mischievous as Bess again risked a glance lower, only to blush more. 

He wrapped a mass of her hair around his wrist and pulled it slightly. As she grimaced and sent him a withering look, her erstwhile discomfort gone, François fondled her breasts, reveling in the sensation of the satiny texture of her skin. This caress provoked a concupiscent response within her, the ache in her belly spreading through her like growing ivy. Elisabeth clung to his arms caressing her everywhere, her entire being gravitating to him like the heads of flowers lifting to the sun. 

“Bess.” He cupped her face with a blend of ethereal softness. “It will hurt only once. Then we shall soar to the heavens on earth, melting in a new miracle of your rebirth.” 

Her eyelashes flapped gracefully. “My rebirth?” 

A gamut of emotions in his dark gaze magnified the ache in her abdomen. “You will become my woman after this night. My queen from a life-long epic we can write about us.” 

Her eyes were smoldering green fires beneath the red brows. “I want this with you, François.” 

As he slid into her, Elisabeth instantly felt the friction, and François paused, his lips marauding hers. Then he penetrated her with one powerful stroke, causing her to whimper as he froze inside her. 

The queen’s heart drummed like a mallet threshing harvested wheat. “Ah… Is it over?” 

The ruler was relieved that there was no much and sharp pain, judging by her reaction to his intrusion into his wife’s body. “My nymph, it is only the beginning of our journey.” 

Slowly, François moved inside his spouse, maintaining a languid rhythm, like that of a lofty pavane. His mouth again took hers prisoner as she lay beneath him, now arching her back up to meet his thrusts. Although his tenderness was as exquisite as a stroke of Botticelli’s brush, tremors of immense desire leaked through her, dissolving into her bloodstream and penetrating her bones. Some candles no longer burned, and beams of moonlight illumined them with a transcendental aura. 

“Oh, gorgeous Bess.” The king kissed her ardently, probing the honey of her mouth.

Her legs were enfolded around his waist. “François, my knight!” 

As if no longer wishing to be a cocoon of his gentleness, Elisabeth wriggled beneath him in the most delightful way. François was now driving into her with more force and deeper, causing her to gasp over his mouth and then let out a shriek. His expression like that of a victorious imperator of the sensual realm, he was buffeted by the palpitating emotions that tore through him as they made love with urgency. A wave of celestial gratification carried them to the summits of the Mount Olympus. 

As they rested entwined like ribbons in the aftermath, her dulcet voice drawled, “François…” 

The moon’s rays shone softly into the chamber. “Now sleep, Bess.” 

ξξξξξ

The fingertips of oblivion touched Elisabeth. Soon she wandered through the labyrinthine alleys of the matrimonial harmony in her sleep, which she imagined after their first time. In a couple of hours, she instinctively tried to press herself to her husband who had to be close. Yet, stretching her hand across the bed, the queen discovered only an emptiness that rapidly awakened her. 

Bess sat up in the bed. “François! Where are you?” He was not in the room. 

The door opened, and Joan Bourchier walked in. “Your Majesty is awake.” 

The queen snuggled under the blanket. “Where is the king?” 

“He departed soon after you had fallen asleep,” answered Joan with sadness. 

“Leave me.” At this, her soul plummeted into a lake of brokenness. 

Alone in her room, Elisabeth rose from the bed and cast a brief glance onto the white sheets. There was a small bloodstain in the middle of the bed – her virginal blood, proving the consummation. She was certain that François and Louise would collect it on the morrow and would keep it. 

Why had François deserted her? All at once, she knew: her husband must have gone to one of his mistresses. Rage kindled in her. The effrontery of him! Bess rushed to a chest of drawers and rummaged through her things until she found a pile of the king’s letters to her. One candle on a nearby table still burned, and the queen darted there. As she unfolded the first letter and scanned through its contents, a deluge of tears, more abundant than the Biblical flood, clouded her vision. 

_Your esteemed Highness,_

_I hope that you will find my gifts of books, written by Italian philosophers, to your taste. Pico Mirandola and Poliziano were both illustrious humanists of the golden Florentine Renaissance. As you are interested in Italian culture, I recommend that you read them attentively. My soul is pulsating with subtle breezes when I read classics, humanistic works, and everything about the arts._

_If you like the Chanson de Roland, we will have musicians perform it at our court after our wedding. We may compose a new Lament honoring Sir Roland’s heroic death. We must also write an epic of our own glorious story tinged with chivalry, honor, and elation, never tragedy._

_In the portrait, you are so beautiful that my soul sings every time I contemplate your angelic face. God above, how much I crave to touch the red-gold wealth of your hair and to look into your fathomless eyes the color of verdant grass. You are a creature from some myth!_

_My life is usual: I’m involved in state affairs and spend time with my mother and sister. As our Margot will leave for Portugal in several years, I cannot part with her for long. I intend to invite famous artists, even Leonardo Da Vinci, to France in order to bring the light of education and art to our country. If you join me in my endeavors, we will design a new golden era together._

_Written by the monarch who is enchanted by you._

_King François I of France_

Elisabeth blinked away the tears and furiously tore the letter apart in her righteous outrage. Then she unfolded three more letters, and their fragments littered the floor the next moment. 

“Liar,” the queen growled, her eyes watery like a rose petal moistened by dew. “Liar!” 

The Queen of France cried herself to exhaustion. The ideas of the barrenness, monotony, and sordidness of arranged unions swirled in her brain. Her every nerve was a depression in the coverlet of her body, so she often awoke and stared into space until the trance-like sleep cloaked her again. 

ξξξξξ

As the first faint streaks of dawn tinged the still dark firmament, King François awoke, sated and warm. In the semi-darkness of his bedroom, he saw his paramour, Marie, lying on the other side of the bed, her long and blonde hair, into which he had entangled his fingers during their vigorous couplings, sprawled across the pillow, her face serene as if it were the finest Italian marble bust. 

“Ah,” breathed the ruler as he rolled onto his stomach and watched his lover asleep. 

Having left his new consort, François had retired to his apartments, where Marie Gaudin had already awaited him because his page had notified her beforehand. The night had been a feast of carnal pleasures for the monarch who had deflowered his green-eyed wife and then claimed his blonde courtesan as his. With Elisabeth, François had been tender and cautious not to frighten his virtuous spouse, amazed with the force of passion she had unleashed in him despite her inexperience. 

Longing for eccentric lovemaking, the king needed Marie who had taught him the art of physical love a year earlier, and whose beauty attracted him even after she had birthed his first son. He had not dismissed her, unlike his other mistresses, for she was not a demanding girl. Moreover, Marie was a goddess of love in bed as she pleasured her sovereign in the most wanton ways, knowing what aroused François and what could give him the strongest ecstasies. _Marie can get pregnant again._

At these musings, François smiled. Outside, the dawn brought the fragile rays of sunlight that filtered into the room, furnished with ancient ebony furniture, installed in this castle during the reign of Philippe VI, his direct ancestor. Quietly, he climbed out of his bed, its headboard carved with the royal arms, and donned a robe. He crossed to the door and exited into the antechamber. 

The royal Grand Chamberlain – Louis I d’Orléans – slept on a blue-brocaded couch. The second son of Duke François I de Longueville, Louis had entered the king’s service seven years ago. Still dressed in a red silk attire, Louis was snoring after all the amount of wine he had consumed during the festivities. His fair complexion and wheat-colored hair contrasted with his flushed face. 

The monarch called, “Good morning, Louis. Fetch Philippe de Chabot.” 

Louis’ gray eyes fluttered open. He bolted into a standing position and dropped into a bow. “Your Majesty, I hope that you slept well. Give me a few moments.” Then he was gone. 

The ruler busied himself with the examination of the wall hangings portraying the history of the French monarchs. The medieval Palais de la Cité irritated François, and he vowed that he would have most of the royal châteaux rebuilt, refurbished, or enlarged in the modern Italian style.

Soon Philippe de Chabot appeared. His family was one of the oldest and most powerful in Poitou and after his father’s death, he inherited many titles: Seigneur de Brion, Count de Charny and Buzançois. His athletic body was still clothed in his yesterday’s ensemble of a tawny satin doublet adorned with diamonds and matching trunk hose. His tousled chocolate hair fell in disarray over his ears as Chabot directed his hazel eyes, still sleepy, at François. A coeval of his king, Chabot had grown up with François after his parents had sent him into the royal service ten years ago. 

Chabot bowed. “How can I serve Your Majesty this morning?” 

The monarch strolled to a chest of drawers in the corner. He opened one of them and extracted an object from a purse of scarlet velvet. An elegant necklace of oval-cut diamonds came into view. Louis and Philippe approached the ruler from the back, their expressions curious. 

Louis complimented, “Your Majesty’s taste in jewelry is exceptional.” 

“Like our liege lord’s taste in women.” Philippe chuckled. “For whom is it?” 

A wicked grin curved the king’s lips. “For the lady who was dressed like a winter nymph.” 

“Mademoiselle Jacquette Andron de Lansac,” Philippe clarified, realizing why his liege lord had summoned him. “Your Majesty, I’ll personally hand this gift to the lady.” 

Louis noted, “She observed you from time to time yesterday.” 

Philippe took the purse from the ruler. “She is in absolute fascination from Your Majesty! She arrived at court only three months ago, perhaps to finds a husband.” 

A shard of guilt hit François. “I liked her too, but–” He trailed off and sighed. 

“What is wrong? Do you need our help?” a concerned Louis questioned. 

The king could speak frankly to his friends. “I am no longer a free man. I have Marie Gaudin, and I’ve indulged in affairs with many women. Hasn’t my wedding changed anything?” 

Louis corrected, “You are _a married king, not a usual man_. All women serve your pleasures.” 

Philippe clasped the gift tightly. “Your Majesty, if I take a wife, it will be only to beget heirs.” 

“Indeed, marriage is for procreation,” stated François rhetorically. “In particular a royal one. I am fortunate that the marriage bed will be pleasant for me because of my wife’s beauty.” 

“I’ll pay a visit to Mademoiselle Jacquette.” A grinning Chabot bowed and ran out.

“Your Majesty, enjoy your youth, for it passes quickly,” recommended Louis before going to the dressing room to pick up a new set of clothing for the king, who nodded at him. 

François remembered how he had abandoned Elisabeth after the consummation. Once more, liquid guilt salted his inner realm, but then he reminded himself of the political nature of their union. As his mind replayed the vision of a dancing Jacquette Andron de Lansac, his pulse sped up.

* * *

**_December 26, 1510, Palais de la Cité, Paris, France_ **

“Where are we going, François?” enquired an astonished Queen Elisabeth. 

The king elucidated, “To _the Tour de l’Horloge_ , or the Clock Tower.” He pronounced the name of the palace’s tower for the second time in his charmingly accented English. 

The spouses were inside the tallest tower of the palace, which had been used as a royal residence since the Merovingian kings in the 6th century. Built by King Jean II of France known as the Good between 1350 and 1353, the _Tour de l’Horloge_ played a role of guard for the castle’s security.

Elisabeth and François stopped at the next flight of the stairs they were slowly climbing. Having left the queen’s apartments half an hour ago, he led his consort to the Clock Tower. Today was the Feast of St Stephen that followed yesterday’s Christmas banquet in the _Grand’Salle_. 

François admired his wife’s appearance. Today, his queen’s raiment was of purple brocade with a low square-cut neckline, her stomacher of fuchsia velvet set with precious stones. “I want to show you the panorama of Paris. Soon we will move to the Loire Valley, and I don’t know when we will go to the north again.” He observed, “Your Majesty has rapidly accepted French fashions.” 

Her hand slithered down the throat to her half-exposed bosom with an amethyst necklace, which her strict grandmother would have called too inappropriate. “Eccentric and revealing!” 

“The French gowns suit you perfectly.” He extended his hand to her, and she accepted it. After brushing his lips against her hand, he said huskily, “I can see your body better in such dresses.” 

“You are so impudent!” Blush suffused her cheeks, but her lips curled in a grin. 

“Don’t tell me that my brazenness hasn’t given you a lot of pleasure.” 

As they continued ascending the staircase, François chuckled at her embarrassment all along. Since their wedding, he had bedded his consort every night, teaching her the art of lovemaking. 

He voiced the tower’s historical background. “King Charles the Fifth called the Wise installed the first public clock in Paris on the façade of this tower, from which it gained its name.” 

As they found themselves at the upper level, the sentinels bowed to them. Although Elisabeth had gotten used to living in this medieval, yet grand, palace, she considered the interior gloomy. The ancient wall tapestries alternated with bare walls at intervals, causing even the king to frown. At the top, there was a small rectangular pavilion surmounted by a steeple, where they headed.

King François opened the door, letting his wife go ahead. Then he followed her. 

Inside the pavilion, a fire blazed in the huge stone fireplace so the air was warm. Since the end of autumn, the weather was rather cold and rainy. Neither of them wore winter cloaks, for they had not gone outside, moving between passages connecting various wings of the palace. As they neared a window, the ruler flung the shutters open, and a blast of chilly wind hit them in the face.

Standing behind his wife, he wrapped his arms around her waist. “Look there, Bess!”

“The Paris is a city of snow now,” she commented in a rapturous manner. 

Like an orange-tinged canvas, the cold sunset sky stretched above the capital of France and the countless medieval and Gothic buildings, whose roofs were silvered with snow. The River Seine, frozen in some places, meandered through the city, embracing the Île de la Cité and the Île Saint-Louis, with small islands scattered here and there in the midst of the wintry landscape. The steeple of the Notre-Dame de Paris Cathedral towered above everything, signifying the city’s ancient grandeur. 

François gestured to the right. “There! The Notre-Dame de Paris, a Parisian main basilica.” 

Bess chortled. “I cannot see the Basilica of Saint-Denis where I was crowned.”

His laugh tickled the skin of her neck. “It is in the suburbs.” His arms tightened around her. 

“I remember.” Elisabeth would never forget the day of her anointing as Queen of France. 

A month ago, the coronation of Queen Elisabeth had taken place on the Feast of St Saturninus. The monarch had spared no expense for the memorable event. Louise, Marguerite, and Elisabeth had together designed the ceremony and the joyful entrée into Paris. The procession had followed the ancient route of French kings from the Porte Saint-Denis to the heart of Paris, passing by Notre-Dame Cathedral on the Île de la Cité and then heading outside of the city to the Basilica of Saint-Denis. 

Everywhere along the route, the streets had been draped with fabulous tapestries and lined with fine fabrics. The first snow had fallen on that late autumn day, but crowds of the amicable Parisians had gathered to greet the new queen. Elisabeth had occupied an uncovered litter, garbed in an ermine cloak above a burgundy brocade dress, dotted with golden fleurs-de-lis. Her hair flowing over her shoulders, she had worn on her head a golden crown embellished with hundreds of jewels. 

King François had ridden at the helm of the cavalcade, with his relatives confined to other litters. They had been accompanied by influential government officials, Bourbon princes of the blood, and many nobles, including the queen’s English ladies. The new English ambassador to France – Charles Somerset, Earl of Worcester, who had escorted Elizabeth with her retinue to Paris – was among them. The spectators enjoyed the majestic pageant and the distributions of free victuals. 

Elisabeth had been entertained by many _tableau vivants_ and _mystères_ performed at the city gates and in squares. Upon their arrival at Saint-Denis, she was greeted by Étienne de Poncher, Bishop of Paris. As Bess had walked down the nave, Princess Marguerite and Françoise d’Alençon, whom Bess had recently befriended, had carried the long train of her sumptuous gown. Several highborn French noblewomen, who had entered into her service at her mother-in-law’s advice, had carried her mantle. Five hundred torches illuminated the return of the procession to the Palais de La Cité.

“Paris is magnificent,” gushed Elisabeth, unable to tear her eyes away from the view. 

Now she melted in François’ arms, relishing in their closeness, and torrents of warmth hotter than her furs surged through her. Her doubts about her marriage seemed so far away every time they shared a private moment such as this. His handsomeness, gallantry, and wit captivated the queen, and his mere touch could set her body aflame – it was no longer new for her. What did she feel for him despite her knowledge of his mistresses? If it were not love, perhaps it would be in nine months.

“You seem distracted, Bess. Is something troubling you?” François quizzed. 

Elisabeth turned to her husband, resting her forehead on his, their breathing intermingling like a conflux of two rivers. “In fact, it is the opposite,” she retorted coyly. 

“Oh? And what would that be?” There was a glint of excitement in his eyes. 

“I am with child, husband,” announced the queen gleefully. “Soon we shall have a son.”

“What a great Christmas gift! You have made me so happy!” François laughed animatedly and kissed his spouse’s hands. “It matters not, Bess, for we are young. If we have a healthy daughter at first, I shall be most delighted. France needs a son, but a princess as beautiful as her mother will be a most pleasant thing.” He placed a hand upon her flat belly, for she was not showing yet. 

After they had left the pavilion, the spouses retraced the path down the same staircase. In a few minutes, they exited the Clock Tower and returned to the palace’s wing where the court lived. 

All this time, a tremulous voice spoke in Elisabeth’s head. _Of course, François thinks so. He already has a son, Jean, with Marie Gaudin, who is pregnant again._ She shook her head, reminding herself that she would have a trueborn prince, unlike that whore’s bastards. The queen believed that the hold of all François’ paramours over him would break as soon as Elisabeth gave him a dauphin. Perhaps her husband would send them away at her request, wishing to please his pregnant wife. 

They encountered Jacquette Andron de Lansac in the hallway. A cousin of the de Foix family, and also a cousin of the late Queen Anne of Brittany, she had become the Queen Mother’s maid. 

Her face a paragon of arrogance, Jacquette beheld the monarch boldly. Her gray eyes conveying her fascination with François, she let her hand seductively slid down the indecently low neckline of her green damask gown, her hair of the rare ash-blonde color hidden beneath her headdress. Not tall and petite, Jacquette did not possess Marie’s classical beauty, but the attractiveness of her expressive features, with a delicate brow, a small aquiline nose, and a bow-shaped mouth, was undeniable.

Jacquette lowered herself into a curtsey. “Your Majesties.” 

“Mademoiselle de Lansac,” said François evenly. Jacquette had surrendered to him after he had showered her with gifts for mere two weeks. She had not been a virgin despite being unmarried. 

Elisabeth stated, “I’d like to return to my chambers.” 

The ruler flashed a smile. “Of course, _ma chérie_.” They walked away towards her suite. 

_Does François call all of his lovers ‘ma chérie’?_ wondered Bess, offended and downhearted. Lady Mary Grey, who had learned a lot thanks to her sociable nature, had unwillingly apprised her queen of Jacquette’s affair with the king. Marie Gaudin had retired to her husband’s estates because of her new pregnancy with _another royal bastard_. Princess Marguerite and the Queen Mother had not told Bess anything about the king’s escapades not to torment her, but Elisabeth still knew. 

As they entered her quarters, François kissed her hand, wished her a good evening, and left. 

_I cannot perform my marital duties due to my condition, but he will always find a new mistress to satisfy his libido._ Mary Grey heard that the ruler of France bedded many other women in addition to Jacquette and Marie, most of his amours random and short-lived. The awareness about this hurt the queen, but she was grateful that François did not parade any of them in front of their court. 

ξξξξξ

Long past midnight when all the courtiers retired to their suites, Louise de Savoy climbed out of her bed. She approached the distant wall in her bedroom and lifted a tapestry depicting St Francis of Assisi founding the Franciscan Orders. Only the upper part of the tapestry covered the wall, and behind it, there was a secret door. Louise opened it with her key, entered, and then closed it. 

The regent of France passed through a small corridor. In a handful of heartbeats, she entered another quarters and launched herself headlong into the arms of Charles d’Amboise. His lips devoured hers with a fiery passion more scalding than any flame. Their hands were eagerly caressing everything in their path along their clothed bodies. As they finally parted, their breathing was erratic. 

His hand started unlacing her violet brocade robe. “His Majesty visited his _pregnant_ wife before retiring for the night, and then he summoned Jacquette de Lansac to his apartments.” 

Louise rolled her eyes. “My son is as amorous as the Greek God Zeus. Marie is already pregnant with _his second child_ , so he sent her away to her amenable husband’s estates.” 

Charles undid her hair and ran his fingers through it. “Yes, and he calls himself so.” 

The chief minister of France led Louise through the antechamber to his bedroom. The chamber was furnished with massive walnut furniture and a bed canopied with heavy drapes of azure velvet, which dated back to the reign of Philippe V the Long. Flemish arrases hung on the walls.

“I pity Queen Elisabeth.” Louise emitted a sigh. “It is very difficult for her to endure all the mistresses of my son, who also wishes to install someone as his official _maîtresse-en-titre_.” 

He massaged her temples artfully. “I like our new queen who is a good wife for King François. However, he is a monarch, so it is his right to take as many paramours as he craves.”

Her frown communicated exacerbation. “I hate that you, Charles, sound like all men for whom marriage is necessary only for procreation.” She stepped away from him. “My late husband, Count Charles d’Angoulême, slept around and sired bastards, not caring that he was hurting me.” 

Her lover’s countenance changed into contrition. “I’m so sorry that you suffered so much during your marriage, Louise.” He marveled at the rush of his powerful feelings pulling him to his beloved. “If you were my wife, I would have worshipped you like a goddess and been only with you.” 

Louise jeered, “You are unfaithful to your spouse.”

“A wife of your choice,” he reminded. “We have rarely been together.” She nodded knowingly. 

In 1501, Charles d’Amboise had married Jeanne de Graville Malet, Louise’s trusted friend. It was a matrimony arranged for her lover by the regent of France so that they could conceal _their secrets_. Charles’ only son, Georges d’Amboise, had been born in a year following his wedding. 

He breached the gap between them and hugged her. “We needed this marriage, and I’ve never loved Jeanne, although she is a kind woman. I feel guilty for betraying my marital vows, but I cannot live without you.” His mouth brushed against hers. “You are the love of my life, Louise!” 

All the other thoughts evaporated from her head, and Louise bloomed like a flower. “And I love you, Charles d’Amboise – more than I thought I could ever adore a man.” She kissed his nose and both of his cheeks. “My feelings for my late spouse were a mere infatuation of a teenaged girl who fantasized of a happy marriage and children with a man who was never a true knight.” 

His arms enfolded her like the outer walls of a fortress. “Is that why you were adamant about teaching His Majesty the culture of chivalry? You wanted him to be better than his father.” 

“I’ve succeeded: François has his code of honor and is a knight through and through.” A sigh erupted from her. “Yet, my son inherited his father’s amorous temperament, and the study of courtly love made François more inclined to all kinds of pleasures which women can provide him with.” 

Charles remarked, “Regardless of anything, Queen Elisabeth must endure.” 

“Just as many women, including your wife. The succession cannot be cast into doubt.” 

“ _Our secrets are safe with my spouse_ , Louise. She will never utter a word.” 

The regent praised, “Jeanne is our loyal friend.” 

A lick of desire slid down his spine. “Yes. But must we talk about this now?” 

In the dimly lit chamber, Louise’s hazel eyes shone. “Our surreptitious rendezvous reinvigorate me. All is alive within me when I am with you, Charles. Without you, I tumble into nothingness.”

He squeezed her tighter in embrace. “The same with me, Louise. We will be together as long as I breathe, and I shall always protect our king. Life halts within me when we are apart for long.” 

The lovers pounced on each other in a frenzy of kissing, biting, and sucking. As they tumbled into the bed, they discarded the remainder of clothes rapidly and became one. Their frantic coupling matched the inextinguishable fire of passion burning inside them. In the dead of night, when they met and parted just before sunrises, their vehement dances were a focal point of their very existence upon this earth, for in each other’s arms, Louise and Charles felt as jubilant as angels in paradise did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers and friends! We hope you are safe and cheerful in these uncertain days!
> 
> At last, Elisabeth Tudor and King François I of France are married in the magnificent Saint-Chapelle, one of the best monuments of Gothic art in France. All the information about the Palais de la Cité, which was a royal residence of French kings from the 6th century (from the era of Merovingian rulers of France), is historically correct. The descriptions of the Saint-Chapelle and the towers of the palace are correct as well. The wedding ceremony is performed in accordance with Catholic rites in the order happening in reality (the Liturgy of the Word, the Eucharist ect).
> 
> It is obvious that François and Elisabeth will not have an easy marriage. Now they are both 16 years old, lacking in maturity and wisdom. As we take the historical portrayal of François I, he has mistresses, despite having a beautiful English wife. We believe that a young and virile man with an artistic soul (it of course deserves admiration!), all the more an eccentric monarch such as François, can become faithful only to one woman when he grows up and finds his true love, which might take him and Elisabeth years to understand and accomplish it. There are many things to admire about François and his reign, especially his cultural achievements. However, he was indeed a philanderer, one who had especially many affairs in his early youth. Neither François nor his rival, Henry of England, are portrayed in an idealistic way. We warn you that François will have mistresses, so please don’t throw stones into us for following his historical path. 
> 
> The French had quite a long memory after the end of the Hundred Years’ War. Therefore, François tells Elisabeth that now she is a Valois queen, one who must by loyal to France and personally to him. Later, François might test her loyalties, and they can have arguments. Their relationship will start as a rocky one, although they find themselves compatible in bed. The poem François reads to Elisabeth on their wedding night was composed by Athénaïs. 
> 
> François will create his own court by 1515-16, and more new characters will appear. Some characters will die because they belong to the reign of Louis XII, but they still must be present in early chapters because the action takes places before and in 1510. Louise de Savoy’s affair with Charles d’Amboise, the chief minister of France (he occupied this position under Louis XII) didn’t happen in reality, but we wanted to give this woman, who dedicated her entire life to her only son and France, moments of happiness and also to create some intrigue in Louise’s life. 
> 
> Marie Gaudin, Dame de La Bourdaisière, was the King of France’s mistress approximately until 1515 when he discarded her after his historical ascension. Then François became strongly infatuated with Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, whom he installed as his maîtresse-en-titre. François had 3 or 4 bastards with Marie Gaudin, who was married off to Philibert Babou to hide her condition. François also had 2 bastards with Jacquette Andron de Lansac, who was also set aside after his ascension to the throne in 1515. Jacquette was married off to Alexandre de Saint-Gelais, Seigneur de Cornefou, obviously to conceal her pregnancy. Although the children legally belonged to these women’s husbands, the court knew who fathered them. In history, these marriages were most likely arranged by King Louis XII. At the time, François was already betrothed or married to Claude of France (their wedding took place on the 18th of May 1514), and it is easy to imagine how displeased Louis XII was with the birth of his son-in-law’s bastards. Of course, François I had other mistresses and lovers, as well as bastards, after his ascension. 
> 
> We changed the spelling of Elisabeth’s name from the English one to the French one as she became the Queen of France. The details of her coronation are historically correct for the standard coronation of French queens. Elisabeth is now pregnant. Whom will she have – a boy or a girl? 
> 
> Many thanks to our friend who provided invaluable assistance in editing the story. The next chapter will be devoted to the Tudor court, Henry VIII, Edmund, and Catherine of Aragon. 
> 
> Yours sincerely,  
> VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance


	5. Chapter 4: Tudor Dreams of Grandeur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a devastating loss in the Tudor family, the English court struggles to move forward. King Henry dreams of his future glory on the battlefield on a grand scale. Prince Edmund is steeped in learning, but his relationship with his royal brother begins to fracture.

**Chapter 4: Tudor Dreams of Grandeur**

**_February 22, 1511, Richmond Palace, Surrey, England_ **

It was a sunny, yet cold, morning, and the gray firmament stretched on into barren nothingness. Nonetheless, the typical winter weather did not prevent everyone’s spirits from soaring high thanks to another of the many jousts given in honor of the recently born Prince of Wales. 

The tournament field, which had been cleaned from yesterday’s snow a mere two hours ago, was thronged with knights and courtiers. In a central pavilion, King Henry sat in a massive, ornately carved throne on a dais under a canopy of state of cloth of gold, with his closest encourage occupying places below him. His expression haughty and mirthful, the monarch was dressed in a luxurious sable cape. At the sound of trumpets, the nobles hurried to the pavilions erected to provide shelter. 

The whole area was blazoned with Tudor colors – red, green, and white. The royal tent, where the ruler prepared for jousting, was of purple satin embroidered with Tudor rose badges conjoining the white rose of York and the Lancastrian red rose. All around there were tents and blazons of knights, whose horses were caparisoned in cloth patterned according to its owner’s heraldic signs. 

_I’ll join the competition in the middle,_ decided King Henry. According to the structure of a tournament defined by the ruler, the participants issued a challenge or a vow, dividing the participants into Challengers and Answerers. Charles Brandon voiced the first challenge to Anthony Knivert. 

Cloaked in an ermine cloak, Princess Mary Tudor beheld Brandon in barely hidden adoration from her place in the royal pavilion, where she sat with her several ladies-in-waiting. 

“Good luck to you, Master Brandon,” Mary encouraged, her cheeks flushing. 

Charles Brandon sent her a cheeky smirk. “Thank you, Your Highness.” 

The fanfares blew, and the two men spurred on their stallions, riding forward at breakneck speed until their weapons clashed like two hammers on anvils. Neither of them was unhorsed as their beasts parted in a handful of heartbeats, but Brandon broke Knivert’s spear, winning as a result. After jumping down from his saddle, Knivert accepted his defeat with a smile after he took off his helmet before leaving the field. After lifting the visor of his helmet, Brandon grinned at Mary Tudor. 

Princess Mary clapped her hands in glee. “Congratulations, Master Brandon!” 

“Bravo!” chorused some young women who admired the handsome young knight.

Drowning in an ocean of sheer elation, the audience did not notice the sudden arrival of Lady Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, who rushed to the royal dais as though there was some kind of life-threatening emergency. As she climbed there, Margaret bobbed an awkward curtsey.

King Henry was annoyed that he was disturbed. “Lady Salisbury, is everything well?” 

“Your Majesty,” started Margaret, her voice dripping with immeasurable anguish. “Our Prince Hal…” Pulling herself together, she announced the gravest tidbits she had just received. 

“Is that really true?” King Henry asked, his universe shattered into pieces. His eyes desperately implored the lady to give a negative response, even though he knew she would never lie to her sovereign, especially not about something so cruel. “Lady Salisbury, speak!” he prompted. 

Lady Salisbury tipped her head, her scrutiny downcast. A tall woman now in her late thirties, Margaret Pole had an oval face illuminated by her big and kind blue eyes which now dared not look at her depressed liege lord. Having been appointed the prince’s governess, she felt responsible for his wellbeing and guilty that she had not prevented the calamity, her austere gown of black velvet aggravating her inner blackness. But what could Margaret do if the boy had suddenly died? 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” choked out Margaret at last. “I am so sorry… The prince is in heaven.” 

The monarch paid no attention to festive screams around him. Brandon and his next opponent, Sir Anthony Browne, both mounted and entered the area designated for combat. Margaret Pole stood near the throne, her head dropping even lower to her chest. So far, only the monarch and his friends – Sir William Compton and Sir Francis Bryan who both sat nearby – were aware of the tragedy. 

The ruler’s funereal expression puzzled the assemblage, and whisperings arose. King Henry had been indescribably happy with his son’s birth and jousted as _Coeur Loyal_ – Sir Loyal Heart – in honor of his queen, who was not present at today’s tournament. Numerous pageants and tournaments of glamorous extravagance had taken place during the weeks following the prince’s birth. 

Steeped in chivalric romance, the English monarch had arranged lavish celebrations. The first tournaments, held at Westminster the beginning of the month, had been preceded by an elaborate procession through the streets of London, when the participants had showcased themselves in their best fineries. The Londoners had gaped and cheered as they had gone past them in all their glory, with the young, athletic, and handsome King Henry in the center of the cortege surrounded by a host of footmen, officials, dignitaries, a mace bearer, nobles, the officers of arms, and trumpeters. 

During the opulent tournament after Queen Catherine’s churching, Henry had jousted in her honor wearing her colors, his new silver armor decorated with H’s and K’s, pomegranates and roses. He had emerged triumphant from every contest on that day. To immortalize the event, the ruler had commissioned a Roll of Honor depicting Henry in all his magnificence bowing to his Spanish consort. Soon the pictorial illuminated manuscript of substantial length would be produced for the couple. 

Now it all was meaningless. Grief crushed Henry like hordes of foes, and he could not utter a word, as if his vocal chords were frozen. _How could my son die? Cat and I were so euphoric when he was born!_ It was like a ship sailing on a sunny day, being carried across the sea, only for a sudden storm to hit and waves batter it mercilessly, dragging it down to the murky depths of the ocean below. 

“Our most sincere condolences, Your Majesty,” affirmed William Compton ruefully. 

Francis Bryan enquired, “We are so sorry… Your Majesty, how can we help you?”

This galvanized the monarch into action. He sharply rose from his throne and shrieked, “The tournament is over!” He descended from the dais and stormed away, his strides wide and fast. 

This utterance sent ripples of confused and agitated murmuring throughout the congregation. The whisperings grew louder and louder. Their perplexity was magnified by the doleful countenances of Bryan and Compton. Lady Salisbury hastened after Henry, struggling to keep his pace. Princess Mary’s abashed eyes oscillated between the disappearing form of her brother and the knights. 

Brandon glanced in the direction of where his liege lord had gone. “What is wrong?” 

“Something terrible seems to have happened,” Browne inferred. 

The two men hopped down from their horses, which were taken away by the stable boys, and then headed to their friends to learn everything. Despite being the monarch’s close companions, they did not follow him in fear to exacerbate the Tudor temper, for Henry was clearly in a foul mood. 

_Cat is likely to already know everything! She must be distraught!_ a heartbroken Henry thought as he neared the palace. _She needs me now!_ He reached a central courtyard and rushed through it like a tornado. He entered the nice building of brick and white stone constructed by his father in the latest style of the era, with geometric octagonal towers and ornate weathervanes made of brass. The palace’s architectural elegance did not touch Henry – he could think only about his spouse. 

ξξξξξ

Despondency followed Henry like a cloud as he hurried to his wife’s apartments, his grief almost strangling him. He spared no glance at the gorgeous tapestries portraying the accession of his father, King Henry VII, to the English throne and his coronation. Scarcely aware of his surroundings, the ruler ignored those courtiers and servants whom he encountered in the hallways. 

He entered the queen’s quarters and found himself in the antechamber. His wife’s several ladies stood up from their chairs and curtsied, their faces as grave as that of Lady Salisbury had been when she imparted the news. Some of them even had tears trickling down their cheeks.

The red-haired monarch did not even acknowledge them as he pushed open the doors leading to Catherine’s bedchamber, his heart sinking as he heard her quiet, yet desperate, weeping. His spouse lay on her wide bed, Catherine’s face pressed into the skirts of her favorite handmaiden. 

“Leave us,” the ruler enjoined to Lady Maria de Salinas in a gentle tone. 

“Accept my deepest condolences, Your Majesties.” Maria rose from the edge of the bed, where she had tried to console her queen and old friend. Only she was allowed to comfort Catherine. 

A slender woman of average height, Maria de Salinas had a fair complexion accentuated by her Spanish gown of azure and silver damask, white skull-cap and double-strand gold necklace with a ruby pendent. Her eyes, pale blue like waters of a pristine mountain lake and moist with tears, seemed large in the midst of her dainty face. Maria’s brown hair was concealed beneath an Iberian pointed headdress made of dark velvet, with long flaps hanging down the back and sides. 

Henry neared the bed. “Leave us,” he repeated. 

“As Your Majesty commands.” Although Maria’s reluctance to desert her mistress was palpable on her face, she dropped a curtsy before departing to let the royal couple alone. 

Resting in a bed canopied with red velvet embroidered with Tudor roses, Queen Catherine snuggled under green silk covers. The lugubrious silence matched the somber, grand interior of the room in the Spanish style with massive, ebony pieces of costly furniture scattered around the area. The walls, hung with tapestries depicting scenes from the lives of the House of Trastámara and which Catherine had brought from her homeland, heightened the despairing gloom in their souls. 

“Our boy, our poor boy,” Catherine sobbed over and over again. “It is not fair!”

Crushed by waves of bereavement, Henry lay down beside her. “Cat, our boy is in heaven…” 

He enveloped his spouse into his arms. Stroking her hair, he thought that she always looked like a poised queen, but now with her hair undone, her eyes red and puffy, although she was still attired in a splendid dress of lavender brocade trimmed with rhinestones. Now Catherine embodied a bereft mother whose son had breathed his last. _The premature death of a future king is distressing, but that cannot compare to the pain of losing a child,_ Henry mused as he pressed her to him. 

“Oh, Henry…” moaned the queen. “How could it happen to our dearest son? Our boy…” 

“I know, my love, I know,” the king soothed, rubbing circles around her back. 

Catherine clutched fistfuls of the fabric of his doublet tightly, as if he were her lifeline and letting him go would mean that she be sent adrift. “What did I do to displease God that He would deprive us of our son?” she mumbled miserably. “I cannot help but think so, Henry.” 

“What?” He was dumbfounded. “Catherine! Oh, my darling Cathy! Hal’s death is a horrible tragedy, but it is nobody’s fault – most certainly not yours,” he assured, pulling away from her to look into her eyes glittering with tears. “It is not a punishment, but the Almighty’s plan. It must be.” 

“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,” Catherine recited, struggling to believe her husband. She was biting her lip to stop fresh sobs from escaping her. 

“Exactly, my dearest,” stated Henry as he brought her back to his chest. “We must have faith and patience. We are both still young, sweetheart, and we will have many boys. Both boys and girls!” He continued caressing her hair, speaking for her sake as much as for his, for he needed the reassurance that everything would be fine. “God will reward us with the fruits of our love in time.” 

Catherine nodded, taking comfort in his heartbeat and his musky scent. However, even as he murmured into her ear softly, doubts plagued her: the queen wondered if she had caused not only their little Hal’s death, but also that of the babe she had miscarried almost two years ago.

The words from Leviticus thundered through her head as if they had been spoken by some enormous omnipresent being: ‘ _And if a man shall take his brother's wife, it is impurity: he hath uncovered his brother's nakedness; they shall be childless’._ Did that one night with Arthur count? 

_Arthur and I did not even know what we were doing_ , the queen consoled herself. Most importantly, Pope Julius II had granted the papal dispensation for her to marry Henry, and his word was infallible because the Head of the Holy See was the Almighty’s representative on earth. Her parents – the greatest Catholic monarchs whom Catherine revered – had desired her to become the wife of the future Tudor king so that they could keep England as an ally, which effectively contributed to having the kingdom of France curtailed from claiming lands that were not French. 

Thoughts of her sister-in-law, Queen Elisabeth of France, crept into her mind. Catherine had endeavored so hard to become the girl’s friend before Elisabeth’s departure to Paris, but they had never been close. Catherine’s education from childhood and her parents’ fierce detestation of the Valois family predestined that she could not like Bess’ new country. France had not engaged in any wars during Louise de Savoy’s regency, but it was so because King François had been a child. 

The Anglo-Spanish alliance had to be preserved! Catherine had done the right thing by saying that she and Arthur had not lain together, for she had been destined to be the Queen of England. In time, the Lord would bless her and Henry with a male heir. _The French might use Henry’s love for his sister to make him forget years of their mutual animosity to try and steal some foreign lands._

Catherine relaxed and hugged her husband back. “We will have more children, Henry.” 

The monarch kissed her cheeks. “My treasure, I have no doubt of that.” 

His hands entwined with hers, and Henry gathered his consort into a deeper embrace. The queen basked in his warmth, strength, and tenderness, which engulfed her like a cocoon of complete safety. 

* * *

**_March 25, 1511, Richmond Palace, Surrey, England_ **

With the approach of Lady Day, or the Feast of the Annunciation of the Virgin, the English court began to emerge from behind a black veil of mourning. Although part of the king’s heart would remain forever immured besides the small coffin now buried at Westminster Abbey, life went on. With the thawing of snow came spring rains and sunshine, which graced the earth with their presence. 

After the matins attended by the English royal couple and their court, the monarch organized a hunting party in order to cheer himself up. Surrounded by his entourage and a squad of guards in Tudor livery, King Henry galloped through Richmond Forest, which had once been used by his deceased father as a royal hunting reserve. The spring woods were tranquil, the air was quite warm and redolent of first flowers, and the fresh foliage sprouted out more early than in other years. 

“Such a good day!” exclaimed the ruler as he urged the beast forward. 

“This time of year is always pleasant!” Charles Brandon followed his liege lord. 

Riding behind them, Francis Bryan stressed in a rakish tone, “A time of love!” 

“A new life is dawning upon us,” intoned William Compton. 

“Loose the hounds!” instructed the monarch. “Let’s ride like a wind!” 

Exchanging jests, the party rode into the thicket of the forest, awaiting the hounds to announce that they had caught the quarry’s scent. Both the stag and the hart leaped from their cover in the bushes and fled across the parkland, accompanied by loud halloos and the barking of the hounds. In their wake, Henry and his friends spurred on their horses to give chase, while the ruler was signing his _‘The King’s Ballad’_ written by him shortly after his and Catherine’s joint coronation. 

_Pastime with good company_

_I love and shall until I die_

_Grudge who lust but none deny_

_So God be pleased thus live will I_

_For my pastance_

_Hunt, sing, and dance_

_My heart is set_

_All goodly sport_

_For my comfort_

“ _Who shall we let?_ ” Henry finished the first couplet in a loud voice. His chest puffed out with pride as his companions complemented him on the excellent performance. 

The procession paused in a nearby meadow. An exhilarated Henry shot from his longbow the stag and the hart, whom they had pursued for quite a long time. A round of applause followed. 

“Bravo, Your Majesty!” his subjects chorused. 

The ruler clasped his bow in his hands. “Let’s continue hunting and singing!” 

“A good poem or song makes you elated,” noted Charles, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Of course, the fact that the song is about my second favorite pastime certainly helps.” 

“Second favorite, my friend?” Henry asked, bemused. “What is your first one?” 

Brandon leaned over his horse as if to reveal some secret to his liege lord, and then promulgated in a stage whisper, “Having a romp with a pretty girl, Your Majesty.” 

“That is always enjoyable,” Compton declared jocundly. 

A grinning Bryan, who was the worst philanderer among them, admitted, “Deflowering lovely maidens and seducing married ladies are my life-long adventures.” 

Henry broke into laughter. “A woman’s touch is as invigorating as the most intoxicating wine in the world.” His mind drifted to his new mistress – the French beauty Jane Popincourt. 

They departed from the meadow. In another clearing, they saw the hounds surround two deer, having entrapped them in the midst of a copse. Henry and Charles released arrows that hit the animals in their throats, causing them to laugh jubilantly and the deer to tremble in the throes of death. 

“Well done!” Compton and Bryan praised, embarrassed that they had not yet shot anyone. 

Emboldened by his success, Brandon continued in a bragging manner, “So, I hereby reiterate: my favorite pastimes are, in order: women, drinking, and hunting.” He decided to push hunting back to his third favorite activity so as not to copy his liege lord’s preferences. 

The ruler’s grin slipped when he recalled the correspondence from his sister, Elisabeth. She described her life in France in details, but she had confessed to having marital troubles – her husband’s constant dalliances – only to their sister, Mary. _François de Valois enjoys sensual delights too much. My poor sweet sister is married to that French scoundrel! She is brave in her letters, proclaiming her admiration for and respect to her spouse, but she must be suffering at his licentious court._

Henry commented, “King François would agree with you, Charles. I hear that he is pursuing young French beauties for the most part, so he must be neglecting his monarchial duties. I suppose it must be easy for François when he has his formidable mother to handle state affairs.” 

“Madame Louise de Savoy has governed France for too long,” Compton concurred. 

The monarch articulated, “The Salic law supposedly prevents from ruling France women and all male descendants of French princesses. However, France has been dominated by females since Louis the Eleventh’s death. Louise de Savoy and Anne de France… What a bloody shame! If I were in François’ shoes, I would have started to rule on my own on the day I turned fourteen – the age of majority. François is too weak to make Madame Louise step down.” 

His friends burst out sniggering. Their conversation was cut short by the braying of the dogs, and the chase resumed. Soon Bryan, Brandon, and Compton killed three stags, but their liege lord shot two more wild boars. The mighty hunters returned to the palace jovial and victorious, whereas the animals were delivered to the kitchens for them to be later turned into delicious venison and meat. 

ξξξξξ

The spacious royal dressing room was alive with the king’s blithesome laughter. The grooms assisted the monarch in putting on a white silk doublet, ornamented with diamonds and rubies, and hose of golden brocade. Henry admired his appearance in a looking glass that stood on an oak table, especially liking the stylish flaming-red stubble growing upon his chin.

“Perfect!” Henry enthused, nodding approvingly at his smiling grooms.

The egotistical ruler beheld his reflection as if he were the Laconian hunter Narcissus who fell deeply in love with his own reflection in the waters of a spring pond. He had another Privy Council meeting in less than an hour and wanted to dazzle everybody with his appearance. _Not that I’ve looked anything less than my best._ The monarch shook his head and crossed himself, for pride was a sin he must watch out for. _Or least that is what father would say if he were here. But he is not!_

Once the dressing ritual was over, the sovereign of England exited into the antechamber. He went to his cozy study that was part of his living quarters. The book shelves were everywhere in various angles and sizes, full of manuscripts about the arts, culture, and humanism, most of them imported from France, Flanders, and Italy. Henry approached a table piled with his papers. 

A page was let inside. Bowing, he handed a letter to his liege lord. “For Your Majesty.” 

The ruler’s eyes lit up at the sight of the seal: a crowned Tudor rose on top of golden fleur-de-lis. After the groom had vacated the chamber, Henry broke the seal and ripped the letter open. 

_My beloved brother, greetings to you!_

_I hope this letter finds you well. As for myself, I am as light as a feather because now I am with child. François and my mother-in-law, Madame Louise, are most pleased, just as the entire court is._

_God has been benevolent to us, and I’m most thankful for His generosity. I hope that Catherine and you have received my gift for my godson and nephew. In her letters, Mary described the Prince of Wales as the most bonny child, and Edmund mentioned how he was afraid of dropping the infant when he held little Hal for the first time – don’t say to our brother that I informed you about it._

_I pray for a healthy son who will grow to be like his father. François is a paragon of education, gallantry, and charm; the kind of prince I dreamed of marrying. Before the court left for the Loire Valley, my coronation was very sumptuous. He composes poems for me and lavishes me with gifts._

_Maestro Leonardo Da Vinci may relocate to France in the future. When I expressed my interest in the arts, François encouraged me to meet with a talented miniaturist and painter, Jean Clouet, and several Italian masters who work at our court. My dream is to one day see Leonardo and try my hand at painting. François shall make France a center of unprecedented cultural revival._

_Perhaps our sons will grow to be more than cousins, bringing a Golden Age to both France and England. Please, take the best care of yourself; tell Mary and Edmund that I miss them._

_Written with the hand of your sister, bound to you by my filial devotion._

_Elisabeth de Valois, Queen of France_

After putting the missive onto the table, Henry winced, with effort throttling the anger he felt at the mention of his deceased son. This letter was dated earlier than the 22nd of February – the day of his little Hal’s death. The correspondence must have arrived weeks later than intended because of winter storms in the Channel. Once Liz learned of the tragedy, she would send her condolences. 

The monarch slammed his fist into the table. “Damn! We have already lost _two children_!” 

Catherine had conceived soon after their wedding in 1509. A good omen, only for their bliss to be crushed like a rider thrown from their horse while moving recklessly down a steep bank, when Catherine had produced a stillborn girl. Then they had lost Hal only after fifty-two short days. 

Henry ground his teeth in furious frustration mingled with envy. “That so-called King of France still hides behind his mother’s skirts despite having come of age.” His fists clenched. “That Valois _parvenu_ already has a son, albeit a bastard, and he might soon have another with Liz.” 

The monarch eyed the study again, the sight of these books now reminding him of his French counterpart’s famed adoration for the Renaissance. He was happy for his sister, but it irked him that _the Valois peacock_ , as Henry labeled François together with other epithets such as _a parvenu_ and _an effeminate idler and boy_ , had all that Henry himself wanted in spite of doing nothing to deserve it. 

Thoughts of his ancestors’ erstwhile empire on the continent floated through his memory banks. Centuries ago, most of modern France had belonged to King Henry II of England, the unification of whose English and Angevin holdings with the lands of his wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, had created the powerful Angevin empire. Until during the 1200-1220s Philippe II of France, called Augustus, had dismantled their empire after the demise of Richard I of England the Lionheart due to King John of England’s incompetence and Augustus’ political genius. These lands were rightfully English! 

His mind drifted to the Hundred Years’ War. King Edward III of England had utterly defeated France at Crécy and Poitiers in 1346 and 1356, respectively. Then Charles V of France had managed to expel the English from the continent during the 1360-1370s, save Guyenne. Nonetheless, later the disastrous reign of his insane son – Charles VI of France – had resulted in the civil war between the Burgundian and Armagnac factions, which had allowed the most celebrated warrior-king in Henry’s opinion – his namesake, Henry V of England – to cripple French armies at Agincourt in 1415. 

“François and I are very distant cousins,” Henry ruminated aloud, his rage boiling. “Catherine de Valois was my direct ancestress, but not François’, yet we still share many forefathers.” 

Out of all French rulers, Henry Tudor hated Charles VII of France, known as the Victorious, the most for the complete expulsion of the English from the continent during the 1430-1460s until the Battle of Castillon of 1553 when the French had vanquished the English. It irked Henry VIII that now his kingdom had only the city of Calais on the continent. The war between the two countries had long ended, but Henry still viewed the English monarchs and himself in particular as the rightful heirs to the French realm. _One day, François and I will meet in battle, and I’ll knock him off his high horse. I’ll try to get the lands of my ancestors back. France’s faux kings robbed me of my inheritance._

His fists balled so tightly that the knuckles nearly burst through skin. “That damned Augustus is both my and François’ direct ancestor. I am also a direct descendant of Edward the Second and his wife, Isabella of France, who was a daughter of Phillipe the Forth called the Fair. The Valois family also originated from the House of Capet. I’m a Tudor, a Plantagenet, and a Capet.” 

A new surge of rage swept through the ruler. With Hugh Capet being among Catherine de Valois’ and Isabella of France’s forefathers, he had _a double claim to France superior to that of the Valois family_. Having convinced himself of this, Henry strode out of his suite. With an imperial grace, he moved through the corridors, pleased to see courtiers bow and curtsey to him. 

ξξξξξ

“My lords!” The voice of a herald was loud. “His Majesty King Henry of England!” 

The chamber, its walls draped in beige brocade, was bright with sunlight. The advisors were seated at a table heaped with papers and ledgers. They all stood up and dropped into bows as their liege lord walked in, awaiting him to take the place at the table’s head before sitting back down. 

The Tudor ruler eased himself into a throne-like chair upholstered in crimson brocade. 

Henry enlightened, “We have a special agenda today. France has not been involved in Italian wars, but my ambassador at the Valois court thinks that they might enter it soon.” 

The councilors’ countenances ranged from ones of surprise to ones of disapproval. 

The monarch eyed these men. Richard Foxe and William Warham had been members of his father’s Council and were on their way out as soon as suitable replacements were found. Henry wanted only the men whose interests aligned with his own, not with those of the dead Tudor miser.

 _They will have to appreciate that they will not be leaving the same way as Richard Empson and Edmund Dudley did,_ the king speculated. His father’s taxes were exceedingly unpopular, while Henry had wanted to give his people the culprits whom they could blame for these misfortunes. Although they had fulfilled their master’s orders, Dudley and Empson had taken the brunt of the axe. Everyone had commended their young sovereign’s justness when Henry had them both tried and executed.

Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, yearned to ingratiate himself into the new monarch’s favor. “Your Majesty, we should not cling to the unsuitable polices of the late King Henry.” 

Mildly astonished, the ruler was very pleased. “That is precisely my desire, Lord Surrey.” 

The eldest son of John Howard, Duke of Norfolk, the Earl of Surrey was an old man in his early seventies, his grizzled hair visible from beneath his flat cap of black velvet. Attired in a doublet of flame-colored silk, a furred velvet mantle of the same hue, and black hose, Surrey was a thin man of short stature. His bearing presumptuous, his dark and crafty eyes pierced others like darts.

Yet, someone protested, “Sire, with all due respect, I don’t advise to act precipitately.” 

Henry’s aquamarine glare bore into the man whose name was Thomas Wolsey. Clad in red raiment more modest than those of bishops, Wolsey had an intelligent face, though not an attractive one, with hazel eyes and a high forehead. Now in his late thirties, he had once served as secretary to Foxe, who recognized Wolsey’s talents in statecraft. Upon his ascension, the king had appointed Wolsey to the post of almoner – a position that provided him with a seat on the Privy Council.

The nobles frowned at the sight of Wolsey who was unfit to be present at the Council table due to his low birth. Surrey’s disdainful expression contrasted with the respect on Foxe’s face. 

“Why do you think so, Wolsey?” quizzed Henry in a voice colored with irritation. 

Wolsey was a shrewd diplomat who had also served in Scotland during Henry VII’s reign, and his counsel was not to be ignored. “I think His French Majesty will terminate his mother’s regency in a few years. He is unlikely to participate in Italian wars in the nearest future.” 

Henry sniggered. “François is only three years younger than me! Yet, he relies upon his mother to rule the realm that he considers _his_. But is it his? He is an effeminate boy!” 

Wolsey disagreed with this superficial assessment, but he cautiously remarked, “Your Majesty’s French counterpart is simply not rushing headlong into ruling his country on his own.” 

“Perhaps he does not want to govern it at all.” This thought caused Henry to laugh acridly. “My father was content with staying on the sidelines, but I am not. I’ll earn glory on the battlefield.” 

Richard Foxe enquired, “Does Your Majesty plan to declare war on France?” 

“Not yet, but one day I shall do so,” Henry proclaimed with determination. “It is my duty to reclaim the lands on the continent, which were unfortunately lost by my ancestors.” 

“Sire,” began William Warham. “England has prospered a great deal during all these past years because we have stayed out of most military conflicts.” He was not ashamed of this admonishing.

“That cannot be denied,” answered the monarch in a clipped tone, scarcely keeping his temper in check. “Nevertheless, I do have an ace up my sleeve. My father-in-law, King Ferdinando de Aragón, wishes to make a pact with me against France and Navarre, and I shall support him.” 

Wolsey emitted a sigh. “We have peace and commercial treaties with France and Scotland.” Henry VII had married his daughters off to the rulers of these two kingdoms to guarantee peace.

Henry’s patience was wearing thin. “God’s teeth, no one should point out the obvious.” 

“I beg Your Majesty’s pardon.” Now Wolsey comprehended that he would have to alter his approach so as to build friendly rapport with his sovereign. “I meant to say that if we were to ally against France, King François might take that as a sign of aggression and retaliate.”

“That dim-witted and sybarite boy,” snarled the red-haired monarch. “I’ll not let him influence my actions. Besides, according to Ferdinando de Aragón, he may ensure that Pope Julius the Second will join our anti-French alliance. No one can object if I do as His Holiness enjoins.” 

The Earl of Surrey seized the opportunity. “Your Majesty, we may soon be allied with the Holy Roman Empire because of the betrothal between Princess Mary and Charles von Habsburg, young ruler of Flanders. Charles is likely to succeed his grandfather, Emperor Maximilian, as Holy Roman Emperor. While he has not come of age yet, we can be allied with Emperor Maximilian.” 

No one argued with this statement, but the faces of his father’s old advisors were grim. If what the Aragonese ruler wrote to King Henry and Queen Catherine was true, the English monarch would jump at the chance to form a strong coalition against England’s ancient enemy. _I am all too eager to conquer the realm that rightfully belongs to me, but everything must be thought out._

William Courtenay, Earl of Devon, entered the discussion. “Given the existing alliance with Spain and King Ferdinando’s connections with Emperor Maximilian through his grandson and heir, Charles, it is possible for us to be friends with both Spain and the Holy Roman Empire. In this case, we will have France surrounded, and with the Pope’s support, we can attack them.” 

A man of tall height in his mid-thirties, Devon was a muscular man in a doublet of asparagus silk, embroidered with emeralds, as well as matching hose and a toque of black silk. Devon and his late father had led the royal army at the siege of Exeter in 1497, which had ended with the defeat of the pretender Perkin Warbeck. Devon was married to Princess Catherine of York, a daughter of King Edward IV with Elizabeth Woodville, and their son, Hal, was brought up with Prince Edmund. 

The monarch praised, “Indeed, Lord Devon.” Memories of King Henry V’s great triumph at Agincourt flashed in his brain. “I’ll have numerous days of glory for our magnificent country – we will vanquish the French again, just as it was achieved at Crécy, Poitiers, and Agincourt.” 

“Your Majesty will have _a second Agincourt_ ,” uttered Surrey obsequiously. 

“Yes!” Henry averred, as though he was pronouncing a sacred oath. “ _Another Crécy! Another Poitiers! Another Agincourt!_ Perhaps we will capture François like his ancestor Jean the Second of France, that idiot who spent most of his reign in Edward the Third of England’s captivity.” 

“That Jean was the most incompetent French king,” Devon opined. 

Surrey corrected, “The mad Charles the Sixth, though not François’ ancestor, was worse.” 

This elicited an acrid grin of superiority from Henry. “What an embarrassing lineage those Valois clowns have!” He then remembered the feeble-minded Henry VI of England and signed. 

Wolsey chimed in, “I would not underestimate King François and Madame Louise de Savoy.” 

The ruler laughed the matter off. “With the support of Pope Julius, Emperor Maximilian, and King Ferdinando, it will be far easier for us to crush the French than it was for Henry the Fifth when he used the civil war between the Burgundians and the Armagnacs in France against the House of Valois, which aided him to accomplish his unprecedented victory at Agincourt and then disinherit Dauphin Charles, later Charles the Seventh.” He spat the name of this hated foreign monarch. 

“If we have such powerful friends, France will be doomed,” Surrey predicted. 

King Henry rose to his feet. “Within several years, we will establish this coalition.” 

The councilors all climbed to their feet and sketched bows as Henry sauntered to the door. 

As he exited, the ruler was exhilarated, his mind teeming with ideas and dreams about his future military feats. Now he intended to find Charles Brandon and see if his friend wanted to play tennis. It would be far better to engage in some outdoor and sporting activities than stay in a stuffy room. 

**_August 17, 1511, Eltham Palace, Greenwich, Kent, England_ **

“Oh, Jane, _ma chérie_ ,” almost sang the Tudor ruler against his lover’s lips. 

“ _Votre Majesté_ ,” Jane Popincourt purred. “ _Vous êtes si beau, viril, et magnifique!_ ”

His mouth traveled along her jaw to the sensitive skin behind her ear. “Yes, I am handsome, virile, and magnificent in all aspects. Sweetheart, I prefer to speak English with you.” 

Wrapping her legs around his waist, she chortled. “Sire, I am French.” 

Jane moaned as he threaded heady kisses along her shoulder. She lived in England since the late Lady Margaret Beaufort had hired her eight years ago after the Treaty of Calais of 1504 had been signed, and her mission had been to teach young Princess Elisabeth her native tongue and the French court etiquette. Yet, after Bess’ departure to Paris, Jane remained in England. 

Jane Popincourt had become the king’s mistress a year ago. That was why she had not returned to France, for their discreet affair had started when Elisabeth had still lived in her home country. Jane had become enamored of the athletic and attractive English king who loved vigorous bedding. 

The lovers rested on a bed canopied with burgundy velvet drapes. Outside, the shadows of dusk had long mantled the palace, and an array of candles illuminated the royal bedchamber. The room was furnished with ornately-carved, oak chairs lined against one wall, silver brocade-covered couches which stood along the opposite wall, and a rosewood cabinet. The walls were swathed with stunning tapestries portraying the history of the Tudor dynasty starting from the Battle of Bosworth Field. 

The red silk sheets rustled as the ruler shifted and cupped her face. “Isn’t England better?” 

A grinning Jane answered what he wanted to hear. “Far better than France.” 

“Is that why you did not return to the court of King François, your sovereign?” The mere sound of this name was like the worst curse for Henry. “Isn’t Louise de Savoy your former mistress?” 

“Indeed. Her Highness the Queen Mother dispatched me to England a long time ago at the request of your late grandmother. I channeled all my energy into teaching Queen Elisabeth everything she might need in France, and I sincerely hope that at present, she is happy at the Valois court.” 

He swallowed his bitterness. “That is my hope, too. Do you want to live in England?” 

She licked her lips provocatively. “Only if Your Majesty wishes me to stay.” 

Henry gathered her into his arms and deposited a kiss on her brow. “Yes, with me.” 

“As long as you find me worthy of sharing your bed. You have such a beautiful queen.” 

The monarch smiled, but then sighed. “Once Catherine was an Iberian sun in the lives of her family. Now she is my personal sun that shines brilliantly upon the whole of England.” 

A snake of envy slithered across Jane’s spine. “Her Majesty is fortunate to be married to you, sire. You are a paragon of everything a woman would want to have in her man.” 

Pulling away from his naked lover, Henry propped himself on an elbow and studied her closely. “You served in Madame Louise de Savoy’s household. Did you meet François? Did you like him?” As confusion manifested upon her countenance, he added, “I am worried about my sister.”

Jane yearned for the ruler to make love to her instead of talking, but she was obligated to answer. “King François was raised at Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye after his sudden accession to the French throne. I frequently saw him there and at other châteaux, but he was a boy of eight summers when I departed for England. I remember that he was very energetic, well-mannered, and clever, and Madame Louise always hired Italian tutors for both her royal son and Princess Marguerite.” 

The confirmation of his rival’s intelligence was a sore topic for the monarch. Nonetheless, he responded blankly, “I pray that François is a good husband to my Liz.” 

Jane lauded, “Madame Louise adores the Italian Renaissance and the arts, and she passed this love on to both of her offspring. Queen Elisabeth, who was always a dutiful and capable pupil, must be reveling in the splendid and intellectual environment of the French court.” 

This caused Henry to feel both relieved on Elisabeth’s behalf and jealous that his court fell far behind in its cultural development despite the fact that he was viewed as a Renaissance prince. “We have digressed, sweetheart. There are more interesting things for us to do.” 

“What exactly?” Her fingers slid down his neck and brushed against his chest. 

The slight pressure of her fingertips upon his skin aroused him a lot. “Can’t you guess?” 

With a coquettish smile, his paramour twittered, “There are the most delightful French tricks I can do to Your Majesty. They will carry you to the acme of celestial enjoyment.” 

Jane lowered her head to his abdomen. “Let me please you, the mighty Tudor Adonis!” 

His breath hitched as she took him into her mouth. “Did you learn it at the Valois court?” 

“I did,” she said in between the ministrations of her lips. “The French court is as resplendent as it is frivolous, especially now when King François has grown up, from what I’ve gathered.” 

The vicious condemnation of his archrival evaporated from his mind like water in the summer heat. Henry was aflame with desire, its flames burning him as if he were a straw man. 

With one adroit motion, the ruler turned his mistress on her side and entered her from the back. Plunging into a prurient abyss, he pounded into her with reckless abandon, as if driven by a force stronger than his will – his primate male need for mating. Groaning, Jane arched her back into him, and her eyes fluttered closed, while his lips were bruising the tender skin of her neck. After their positions had changed, they continued the salacious feast that Henry could not have with his wife. 

A chorus of moans and groans mingled with their shrieks. _This gives me such pleasure,_ the king mused, his mind dazed while she lavished indecent caresses upon his body. _My other mistresses are far less knowledgeable in the art of lovemaking, so Jane will be with me._ Before his marriage to Catherine, Henry had bedded two noblewomen not to be inexperienced on the wedding night. After the recent tragedy, his queen had retreated into religion; Henry had found consolation in amours. 

When his paramour dozed off afterwards, Henry climbed out of bed, his feet hitting a thick and tawny Aubusson carpet flowing throughout the room. He always summoned his paramours to his suite after dusk and at nights, which he rarely spent with Catherine nowadays. The Tudor court had moved by water to Eltham Palace, where he had grown up, hoping that blithesome memories of his childhood would heal the wounds on his heart, which festered like a canker deep inside him. 

After donning his robe of black and golden brocade emblazoned with Tudor roses, the King of England sauntered over to the dressing room and fetched a groom. 

ξξξξξ

“Your Majesty, good evening,” began Prince Edmund, Duke of Somerset, bowing. 

The king was lounging in a gilded armchair, decorated with carvings of lions. He was richly habited in a doublet of crimson velvet, the placard and sleeves of which were wrought with gold and abundantly adorned with diamonds; his hose matched his doublet in color and ornamentation. A smiling Henry got to his feet and walked the length of the antechamber to his brother. 

The monarch gathered the duke into a hug. As they parted, Henry scrutinized his sibling. 

At the age of twelve, Edmund Tudor was a slender and athletic man of average height and of a pale complexion, his bearing regal. He had become slimmer during the past few years. His face was no longer pudgy: his long, attractive countenance was lit up with the burgeoning elation in his blue eyes, which Edmund felt when he and Henry were simply brothers, not a sovereign and his subject. 

Their different clothes highlighted their bipolar personalities. While Henry was drowning in extravagance that he could not have allowed himself during their father’s lifetime, Edmund remained a man of simple tastes, just as Henry VII had been. Today Edmund was accoutered in a brown velvet doublet, wrought with gold and ornamented with sapphires, as well as hose of the same material. 

They smiled at one another. While both siblings were intelligent, Henry’s gaze was arrogant and absolutely imperial, as if his existence were larger-than-life for the whole universe, emphasizing his superior status over all others. In contrast to the English sovereign, Edmund held himself proudly, but hauteur was not an organic part of his character, and an aura of gentleness enveloped his smart face. Both brothers had red-gold Tudor hair, with Edmund’s hair being a shade lighter. 

“Call me Henry or brother,” corrected the ruler. “No formalities are needed in private.” 

Edmund smiled at the king who towered over him due to the tall height. “Thank you, Harry.” 

“Henry,” the monarch amended. “The times of Harry are long gone, brother.” 

“Of course.” Edmund plastered a smile on his visage, thinking that his relationship with Henry had been far easier before his brother’s ascension to the throne. “As you wish.” 

Henry circled his sibling. “You have grown so much: you are almost a man.” 

“I would love to spend more time at court, Henry,” requested the duke.

“As you are a teenager, I’ll permit you to have permanent lodgings at court.” 

After the wedding of Catherine and Henry, Edmund had lived for the most part at Eltham Palace, where the royal children had all grown up. Despite being in the company of Princess Mary, who went to court from time to time, Edmund had missed their brother and Catherine, who was a maternal figure for them. When Henry had arrived at Eltham, Edmund and Mary had been overjoyed. 

Edmund’s countenance brightened. “Thank you so much, Henry! I want to learn governance in order to help you handle state affairs in all ways you see fit. I promised our late father that we would be like the heroic brothers David and Jonathan, and I shall not renege on my word.” 

The ruler pondered the situation. Loving his brother, he liked Edmund’s desire to become his competent councilor while also respecting the duke’s patriotic inclinations. On the other hand, Henry remembered that three York brothers, who had once been united in their goal to win the throne of England for the House of York, had ended up as enemies. _Edmund is too intelligent, and as he grows older, his benignity might evaporate, superseded by ambition. I do not want us to be competitors._

“Your speech deserves accolades,” commended Henry. “Should we take a seat?” 

Edmund was in a fog of confusion. “You did not answer.” 

The king gestured towards two armchairs at the other side of the room. “Let’s go.” 

While crossing the chamber, the Duke of Somerset slanted anxious glances at the monarch. Although Henry maneuvered the tread of the conversation to Renaissance humanism, which they both adored, Edmund discerned the tension in his face and jaw. Did Henry not wish Edmund to work hard on behalf of their dynasty and the realm? What about the promise they had given to their dying father? _Henry must be afraid of competition, but I am not going to outshine him,_ Edmund inferred. 

The two men seated themselves into a pair of walnut armchairs in front of each other. The pieces of luxurious, gilded furniture were designed in the latest Italian fashion, reflecting the blaze of numerous candles. Henry had imported them from Italy, just as he had purchased a large number of furniture for all of his royal palaces from Flanders, Italy, or Spain, but not France. 

Suddenly inspired, Edmund grabbed a volume from a nearby rosewood table. It was the book _‘The Handbook of a Christian Knight’_ in Latin, written by Dutch scholar Erasmus of Rotterdam in 1501. It was not printed in England yet, but the book had been gifted personally to Henry in 1499 when Erasmus had visited the country at the invitation of Sir Thomas More and King Henry VII. 

“This is an amazing work.” Edmund opened it and scanned the first page. “It can convince any man, even the most ruthless soldier, to change his ways of life and learn gallantry.” 

Henry leaned back in his seat. “Erasmus composed it after he had encountered an uncivilized soldier during one of his journeys across Europe. The man’s pious wife beseeched Erasmus to create a work that could persuade unrefined men such as her husband to live a moral and chivalrous life.” 

Edmund closed the book that he had read over a year ago; Henry had not taken it with him from Eltham. “It is a useful and popular guide book on how to live a moral, Christian life while avoiding formal rituals and observances. I reckon that every man ought to follow these rules.” 

The king threw his head back and laughed uproariously. “You are so bookish, brother.” 

Edmund’s eyes shone with enthusiasm as he articulated, “There is a lot of wisdom in books. Marcus Tullius Cicero said, _‘A room without books is like a body without a soul.’_ My apartments are filled with volumes in various languages. Books leave you with many experiences.” 

Henry praised, “My dearest brother, your mind is a wellspring of wisdom at such a young age. Nonetheless, staying at Eltham with your books is equivalent to reading only one page from the wonderful world that is also like a book. It is high time for you to live at court.” 

“Most gladly!” A smile flittered across Edmund’s visage like a ray of sunshine. 

The ruler pontificated, “Socrates claimed, _‘The unexamined life is not worth living’_. Life should be explored in all senses! Do what gives you delight, be with those who make you exhilarated, laugh as much as you breathe, and love as long as you live! Keep your spirit free and merry!” 

The Duke of Somerset quizzed, “Are these your fundamental principles, Henry?” 

The monarch let out a facetious laugh. “Participate in life instead of watching it pass you.” 

“What about learning lessons from your experiences? Even if you enjoy life to the fullest, the safest course is to do nothing against one’s conscience and live honorably?” 

“I do, Edmund. However, my advice to you is to stop seeking out the dramas in your books and bask in the gorgeous sunlight. Make the everyday scenery of your existence pleasurable.” 

“Ah, I see.” The duke’s recollected the gossip about his brother’s affairs. 

Henry crossed his legs at the ankles. “You must become a worldly man, brother. Or what will your future bride, young Lady Lisle, think about you? Let’s be frank, for you are no longer a child: you cannot find in books how to consummate your marriage and satisfy a woman.” 

A blush stained Edmund’s cheeks. Despite knowing that he was betrothed to his maternal cousin by marriage – Lady Elizabeth Grey, Viscountess Lisle – he had not remembered her. The girl was five years younger, so they would wed when she turned fourteen. Most bachelors indulged themselves into sensual pleasures, but Edmund frowned upon a thought that he could behave so. 

His royal brother read his musings. “Your mindset will change with age. At sixteen, you will feel the first cravings for pretty women – you cannot avoid this because it is male nature.” 

“I trust you are right.” Edmund’s blush deepened to a glow in which disbelief and amazement were mingled. “If I ever fall in love, I’ll behave in accordance with Erasmus’ _‘The Handbook of a Christian Knight’_ , treating my wife or my lady love with reverence and devotion.” 

Henry cocked his head. “I’ll reveal peculiar aspects of courtly love to you.” 

At last, the duke’s features regained normal color. “I read about it in many Italian and French books. I am most captivated by the culture of famous troubadours of Aquitaine.” 

“There were even kings who were troubadours,” recalled the monarch. “For example, King Richard the First of England known as the Lionheart, King Thibaut the Forth of Navarre, as well as King Alfonso the Tenth of Castile and León. Who is your favorite troubadour, Edmund?” 

Edmund often sang songs of troubadours while his sister played the lute. “Arnaut de Mareuil and Raimbaut de Vaqueiras, who both composed lyric poetry in the Occitan language. I’ve learned Occitan quite well, so I translated their works into English. Liz wrote that her husband also knows Occitan, but King François cultivates France’s national culture in French.” 

At the mention of his Valois counterpart, Henry veered his gaze to a tapestry of the mythological hero Heracles defeating a lion that was attacking the city of Nemea. The king again dreamed of his future triumph over François. Henry uttered evenly, “You are extraordinarily well learned, brother.” 

Edmund deciphered the note of pride in his voice, and his face split into a broad grin. “You and I received a stellar education thanks to our father, mother, and grandfather.” Henry only nodded. 

ξξξξξ

Their conversation was interrupted with the sound of the opening door to the royal bedroom. Lady Jane Popincourt emerged from there like a goddess. Her fashionable gown of bronze silk with silver detailing, its neckline cut indecently low and boasting a quilted, black stomacher, studded with diamonds, emphasized her origins – she was French through and through. Jane was one of the few ladies who wore French fashions at the Tudor court, much to Queen Catherine’s annoyance. 

Jane closed the door and approached them, then sank into a deep curtsey. “Your Majesty.” 

“Lady Jane,” drawled Henry huskily. “Go to your suite.” 

She rose from the curtsey, contemplating her lover brazenly. “As you order.” 

Henry apprised, “If you, my lady, want to settle down in England, it can be arranged.” 

Edmund registered a wide, lascivious smile upon his brother’s countenance. He had first seen Jane Popincourt on the day of the court’s arrival at Eltham Palace. Several years older than the king, she was tall and sultry with green-gray eyes shining in the midst of her elegant, round face, with a narrow forehead and high cheekbones. Her waist-length mane of blonde hair streamed down her back in waves. _When did she become my brother’s mistress? After or before Prince Hal’s death?_

Jane knew that he also had two other paramours. “All women belong to you, sire.” 

Henry Tudor was a lecher of untamed energy and passion, boiling in him like a furnace, churning through his blood and igniting female courtiers with an acute longing for the touch of their handsome liege lord. _When His Majesty discards me, I’ll return to France. Hopefully, Madame Louise will accept me back. If King François is as handsome as he is rumored to be, I can warm his bed._

“Another good answer!” Henry beamed at her. “Now leave us.” 

After lowering herself into a curtsey, Jane backed away to the door, grinning at the king. 

Alone in the antechamber, the ruler fixed his scrutiny upon Edmund. “Don’t judge me, brother. I am the King of England, so I have the right to have as many paramours as I want.” 

Edmund remarked, “Henry, you love Queen Catherine who needs you now.” 

The monarch climbed to his feet and started pacing the area. “I do love my Cathy, but the winter tragedy has changed us.” He paused in the center, his anguished eyes directed at Edmund. 

The duke’s heart constricted. “I was not at Richmond, but as soon as I received the awful tidbits, I could only pray for the prince’s innocent soul. I fear to imagine what you and Catherine feel.” 

The ruler’s gaze voyaged along a cycle of tapestries illustrating Heracles’ adventures. “Brother, I appreciate it. Soon I’ll return to Catherine’s bed. Enough time has elapsed for her to convalesce.” 

“I wish you to have many sons, brother,” affirmed Edmund sincerely.

The herald announced the arrival of Princess Mary. As the door opened, a vision of youthful beauty appeared in front of them like a nymph from myths. At her fifteen, the slim and graceful Mary was stunning with light skin, cerulean blue eyes, and regular, lovely features, which nevertheless were less exquisite than Elisabeth’s. Although Bess was hailed as the most beautiful Tudor princess, Mary also possessed the allure, splendor, and charm of their ancestress – Elizabeth Woodville. 

Accoutered in a gown of magenta rose damask, Mary always preferred to wear vibrant colors that made her freshness shine like the brightest star. A stomacher of black and scarlet silk was pinned to the tight bodies embroidered with precious stones. Her long, red-gold tresses were arranged in a chignon on the nape of her head; her girdle around her narrow waist glittered with rubies. 

Mary dropped a curtsey. “Good evening, my beloved brothers.” 

The King of England neared his sister. “Mary! You are an embodiment of perfection!” 

“No less beauty than Elisabeth.” There was a hint of innocent jealousy in her tone. 

Henry halted beside her. “My both sisters and my wife are the most beautiful women in the entirety of Christendom.” He was about to take her hands in his, but she held a sheet of paper. 

“Indeed, my courteous brother.” Mary intercepted his gaze. “This is a letter from Liz.” 

“For you? Not for me and Henry?” Edmund jumped to his feet and strolled to them. 

Mary boasted, “Personally for me.” In a serious voice, she reported, “A few weeks ago, Liz birthed a baby girl, whom her husband named Princess Renée of France.” 

Edmund’s lips curved in a smile. “Thanks be to God! We have a niece!” 

“Is she healthy?” Henry was secretly relieved that his sister and his rival did not have a son. 

“Little Renée is hale and hearty.” A shadow crossed over Mary’s expression. “Two months ago, one of King François’ mistresses – Marie Gaudin, Dame de La Bourdaisière – had her second royal bastard. The baby boy was named Jacques by His French Majesty, who will not set her aside. Her two illegitimate sons legally belong to her cuckolded and compliant spouse.” 

“Oh,” breathed a nonplussed Edmund. “Liz must be melancholic.” 

The monarch resumed pacing the room. Stopping near the most distant wall, he slammed a fist into a tapestry, imagining that he punched François. “That immoral Valois scum!” 

Mary tumbled into a nearby armchair, the letter clasped in her hands. “In addition, the King of France’s another paramour is pregnant. At the initiative of François and his mother, Jacquette Andron, Dame de Lansac, was hastily married off to Alexandre de St Gelais, Seigneur de Cornefou.” 

Henry ground out, “The King of France is a licentious rascal. He is hurting our Liz.”

Mary was concerned about her sister’s emotional state. “François’ lovers serve his mother. At least, he does not humiliate her by dallying with either her English or French ladies-in-waiting.” 

“Are there other women in that effeminate libertine’s bed?” The king’s aversion towards his archrival reached new heights. “Catherine is right: the French are all dissolute and profligate.” 

She emitted a sigh. “François often changes paramours, but he has several constant ones.” 

The carpet took the brunt of Henry’s relentless pacing. “What a scoundrel!”

Edmund settled in an armchair next to their sister. “Aren’t you doing the same, Henry?” 

Pausing near a window, the ruler glowered at the Duke of Somerset. “Watch your tongue.” 

Edmund held his gaze. “I am sorry, brother, but I’ve voiced the truth.” 

“Damn the House of Valois!” Henry opened the shutters and stared out into the dark gardens, but he saw little in the gloom. The night sky was star-spangled all the way to the horizon. 

“Mary, how is Liz coping?” Henry’s theatrics irritated Edmund.

The princess placed the letter on a nearby table. “Liz is saddened by her failure to birth a male heir. To his credit, François is delighted with their baby girl and did not reprimand his wife.” 

Relief cloaked Edmund. “Good. They are young and will have more children.” 

The king spun around. “Just as Catherine and I will, but they have a healthy girl at least.” 

Mary Tudor cast a glance of empathy at her royal brother. “Henry, the Lord will bless you and your wife. Catherine is again in the chapel, so you should pay a visit to her.”

The monarch closed the gap between them. “I’ll do so tonight, but after we perform together.” 

Edmund’s features brightened. “One of the troubadours’ songs in English?” 

A festive Mary bounced to her feet like a panther. “I’ll bring the lute!” She darted to the adjacent room, where the monarch kept the lute and the virginals for his private entertainment. 

When the princess returned, the three of them seated themselves onto a red-brocaded couch near the window. As Mary’s hands dexterously plucked over strings of the instrument, Henry and Edmund sang in English poems about immoral love, composed by Arnaut de Mareuil. All this time, the ruler could not take his mind off of François. _That accursed Valois sybarite and philanderer does not deserve to rule France. I’ll take away his crown that is rightfully mine,_ Henry vowed silently. 

ξξξξξ

It was early morning, and the first rays of sun were kissing the trees in the park. Prince Edmund sauntered along the narrow path, admiring the green smoothness of acres of gorgeous gardens stretching around him. The warm air was thick with the fragrance of versatile and colorful blossoms. To the right, there was a striking hedge, where Edmund often spent time in solitude with a book. 

The Duke of Somerset strode towards the hedge. “It is such a pity I don’t have anything to read now.” As there were only two gardeners in the distant part of the park, nobody heard him. 

In a matter of minutes, he neared the hedge that surrounded the planting of different herbaceous perennials and shrubs. As he entered into the main part, he passed a series of miniature hedges lining the edges of flowerbeds, which exhibited blossoms of roses, lavender, verbenas, yew, and rosemary. Edmund meandered along the curving pathways through exceptionally manicured lawns. 

The prince dived into his favorite maze of yew hedging, consisting of over two thousand plants and covering a great deal of the parkland. _My parents and grandmother were unable to discover me here in childhood,_ the prince reminisced with a bittersweet sensation that nearly strangled him like the chains of grief squeezing his whole being since the day of King Henry VII’s demise. This place was his own world lost among all this foliage, where only Mary and Bess could find him. 

Edmund froze at the sight of a small raven-haired girl whose head swiveled back and forth as if searching for someone. She pivoted to the duke, his soul soared into unknown skies as he peered into two brown pools bewitching him with their bottomless depth and indescribable enigma. _I’ve never seen such incredible eyes before! They are hooks to the soul!_

His heart hummed a music of some unforgettable discovery as she gazed at him directly in the eye. Dressed in a gown of emerald brocade embroidered with pearls, the girl seemed to be aged between three and five – he could not define her age for a certainty. Of a swarthy complexion, she had a heart-shaped face, with sharply penciled black brows, a high forehead, and thin, but well-formed, mouth. Intelligence and intrepidity were etched into her features, exquisite in an exotic way.

As he neared her, Edmund flourished a bow. “My lady, do you need my assistance to get out?” 

Her brows knitted together as she curtsied. “No, Your Grace of Somerset, but I thank you. My sister, brother, and I often play here after matins, which our mama always makes us attend.” 

His curiosity piqued; his breathing was caught in his throat. “I usually come to the maze or to the hedge-walled garden after the matins, but I’ve never seen you or your siblings here.” 

She lifted her chin, scoffing at him. “We have arrived at court only a week ago, but we fell in love with this place at first glance. My mama is Queen Catherine’s lady-in-waiting.” 

“Who are you, charming angel?” His heart somersaulted in his chest. 

The girl’s lips curled in a mystical grin. “Anne. Anne Boleyn.” 

Edmund remembered her parents whom he had seen with the king and queen very soon after their recent coming to court. “A daughter of Sir Thomas Boleyn and Lady Elizabeth Howard?” 

“I’ve said enough.” Her eyes could submerge him into their black liquid entirely. “Now I must go, or my mama will be angry. She already took Mary and George away.” 

Edmund concluded, “You ran away, Lady Anne, didn’t you?” 

Anne pursed her lips. “We played a hide-and-seek game. Goodbye, Your Grace.” 

Staring after her retreating form, he cried, “See you soon!” 

The Duke of Somerset was amazed that such a young creature knew the path to and out of the maze of yew hedging so well. Soon Anne disappeared from his view, much to his chagrin.

Sighing, Edmund thought that he should have taken his friend and companion, Hal Courtenay, to the maze, but he continued strolling alone. Anne Boleyn’s eyes stood before his mind’s eye, as if they were imprinted onto his memory until Doomsday’s day. _Her dark eyes are beguiling me like poems of those many talented troubadours, which I translated from the Occitan language,_ Edmund ruminated as he sat on the grass and watched the sunrise from behind the River Thames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers and friends! We hope you are safe and cheerful in these difficult days!
> 
> In this chapter, we are back to England. We got a glimpse of the Tudor court and witnessed the devastation that was the little Prince Hal’s death in 1511. All the events that preceded the birth of the hapless Prince of Wales, including a series of great tournaments in England, are historically correct. We don’t know how King Henry received the tragic news, so the story of Lady Salisbury’s appearance and his conversation with Catherine is a product of fiction. 
> 
> Henry VIII is unhappy that his kingdom has only the city of Calais on the continent. He remembers about the Angevin empire once created by his ancestors. Like his predecessors, save a few English monarchs such as Henry VII, Henry considers himself the rightful heir to the throne of France for the reasons explained in this chapter. Henry VIII admired King Henry V of England and dreamed of a second Agincourt, which would make him a great warrior king in his opinion. 
> 
> English kings believed that they had the right for the French throne after all the 3 sons of Philippe IV of France known as the Fair (le Bel) died without any surviving male issue. The last direct Capetian king – Charles IV of France – died in 1328. Edward III was descended from Philippe IV of France, his grandfather, through his mother – Isabella of France, better known as the She-Wolf of France. In reality, the Frankish Salic law always prevented female succession of French princesses and that of their male descendants, being the remnant of the Merovingian epoch in France. After the House of Capet had gone extinct in 1328, the throne was inherited by the nearest male relative – Philippe VI of France, the eldest son of Count Charles de Valois, a younger brother of Philippe IV. Edward III was not considered a potential monarch due to this ancient law, and became nobles did not want a foreign ruler for their realm. Moreover, the nobles profoundly respected Count Charles de Valois, who was Philippe the Fair’s highly capable councilor. During the Ancien Régime in France, it was always the closest male relative who inherited the throne. The Estates General (French Parliament), the nobility, and the commoners would not have allowed to abolish this law. In fact, the Salic law established the order of succession, and in case of its cancellation, many new pretenders to the French throne, including foreign ones, would have appeared, invasions would have begun, and a civil war would have started in the country. 
> 
> It is important to understand the differences between the mindset of an English king and person back then and the mindset of a French monarch and person in the Middle Ages and in Renaissance and Tudor eras. Henry VIII has such thoughts about his conquests because he descends from both Isabella of France and Catherine de Valois. In reality, his claim of course is not superior to that of François I and the Valois family. Will Henry invade France or not? 
> 
> Jane Popincourt was a French maid-of-honor at the English court, first during the reign of Henry VII, as a tutor of the French language to his daughters and in this story to Elisabeth as well, and after the accession of Henry VIII, she became a maid-of-honor to Catherine of Aragon. Jane supposedly was King Henry’s mistress, but we modified her historical background to fit into our plot. In France, she was Jeanne de Popincourt who belonged to some minor Parisian nobility. 
> 
> All the information about Erasmus of Rotterdam and troubadours in the conversation between Henry and Edmund is historically correct. We also see the start of two important relationships. One of them is the Edmund/Anne Boleyn storyline. We added the episode of Anne’s short meeting with Edmund because we were asked to do so by readers, and we hope that you like it. 
> 
> Many thanks to our friend who provided invaluable assistance in editing the story.
> 
> Yours sincerely,  
> VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance


	6. Chapter 5: Prepared for the Worst, Hoping for the Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Spain and England hungry for their lands, France and Navarre create a defensive alliance. Meanwhile Princess Mary Tudor trades one Charles for another, much to her brothers’ and her sister-in-law’s ire.

**Chapter 5: Prepared for the Worst, Hoping for the Best**

**_May 17, 1514, Palace of Beaulieu, Essex, England_ **

_Ah, aren’t they both a picture of somber monarchs, ones who are ready to dole out punishment on an erring subject?_ Charles Brandon mused as he made his way to the dais where the sovereigns of England sat in massive, carved thrones under a canopy of cloth of gold. The royals had the same sour expressions on their faces. The nobles, who had gathered in the great hall, witnessed this spectacle – how else can it be called – with a blend of curiosity, envy, and amazement. 

The lovely Tudor princess, who walked next to Brandon, seemed to read his thoughts and squeezed his hand. Charles admired his young spouse’s beauty. Today, Princess Mary Tudor wore a stylish gown of white velvet, embroidered with diamonds and rubies, her stomacher of red silk, and a Spanish hood, studded with gems, adorned her head. They both knelt at the base of the thrones. 

They had known that it would come to this. It was only thanks to King Henry wanting his closest companion at his side when they invaded France, and to the news of his youngest sister being pregnant that had stopped the hot-tempered ruler from having Brandon arrested and perhaps executed, or at least from banishing them both to the countryside. _We have been quite lucky,_ Charles deduced. 

The monarch’s face contorted in displeasure. “Let’s begin, _Master Brandon_.”

Charles Brandon and Princess Mary Tudor could barely withstand the ruler’s intense glare. Henry had deliberately underscored the low status of his friend before the ceremony of his ennoblement. At the king’s sign, the couple rose to their full height, their scrutiny downcast. 

“You must both be prostrate with gratitude,” the king hissed quietly.

Queen Catherine chimed in, “You ought to be very grateful.” She eyed Brandon disdainfully. “What were you thinking about, Mary? Selecting this upstart over my nephew!” 

Intrepidly, Mary murmured, “I married my beloved, just as Your Majesty did.” 

The queen could not refute the truth in her sister-in-law’s statement. “Snubbing my family in favor of–” Her voice faltered. Ah, she and Henry had also married for love, despite his infidelities. 

For a while, a silence full of trepidation reigned in the chamber. The walls, draped in tapestries depicting the ancient Roman emperors, to whom King Henry liked comparing himself, were now pressing upon the anxious spouses. Thoughts tumbled through the heads of Mary and Charles. 

At first, Mary and Charles had simply flirted with one another, but their teasing and smiles had turned into a full-blown courtship. Mary had become enamored of her brother’s handsome friend in her early youth, and as she had grown into a stunning beauty, Brandon had also fallen hard for her. Then secret romantic notes had been exchanged for months. Charles remembered the moment when they realized that they had no other chance but to marry or be miserable for the rest of their lives. 

_During a feast, Mary and Charles stood beside each other in the corner, enjoying claret and eating. The rest of the royal family were seated at the highest table, covered with a multitude of food. Most courtiers occupied their places at lower tables, while others clustered in the corners of the great hall to converse with their friends, holding platters, full of delicacies, in their hands._

_Tonight, Charles was in rather low spirits. “I hear he has a magnificent chin, my lady, long enough for a bird to make a nest on it,” he snarled, his voice colored with sarcasm._

_Mary laughed, sipping her wine, relishing in the lavish celebration her brother had thrown in a whirlwind of many other extravagant festivities, which were now usual for the Tudor court. So, they had gotten to the topic of her betrothal! She was pleased that someone, unlike Queen Catherine, was not singing praises to Charles of Burgundy. “My goodness, Charles, are you so jealous that you insult the very man who is likely to one day become the most powerful ruler in Christendom?”_

_“I merely made an observation, Your Highness. I would not want you to be disappointed when the Duke of Burgundy does not turn out to be the prince of your dreams,” he justified himself._

_They glanced around frantically lest someone could eavesdrop upon them. Fortunately, everyone seemed preoccupied, even Prince Edmund who was either falling asleep or had snuck in a book and was reading it on his lap as he was seated at the royal table._

_The princess let out an undignified snort. “The ideal knight of my dreams, indeed. I’ve not lain eyes on this man, yet I’m expected to marry the Duke of Burgundy. How can I love a man whom I’ve never met? One who has not known me for all his life, one for whom my heart is not beating fast?” Her eyes locked with his; her slightly parted lips enticed him to draw closer._

_Charles swallowed nervously. “Your sister, Queen Elisabeth, was infatuated with the French monarch, even though she never met him. Now, according to Henry, she is the most desolate woman in her marriage.” His gaze slid to the plate he held in his hand, which contained the remains of his dinner. “I would not want such a fate for Your Highness.”_

_The princess recalled the Queen of France’s letters. “Elisabeth has written to me of how she finds herself being driven mad thinking of François with his mistresses. Of how he flusters, enrages, and excites her all at once with only a few sentences. Of his smugness and arrogance, knowing how handsome he is, and of how he is not ashamed to flaunt his irresistible charm. In other words, Cupid’s arrow has struck her true, although Liz claims that she is not in love with her philandering husband.”_

_“Perhaps you will find joy with Charles von Habsburg.” Charles slid his gaze to her again._

_For a minute, they simply stared at one another, waiting for the other to say the words that hang in the air. They both had blue eyes, which were now tempestuous with emotion._

_Finally, Mary spoke, her voice no louder than a whisper. “When you come back from France, I might be already married. This might be one of the last times we ever see each other.”_

_An incredible idea was shaping in his mind. “Unless Your Highness were wed to me, a mere courtier who can give you nothing,” he proposed, his tone half-sardonic, half-serious._

_“Do you love me?” Mary questioned forthrightly._

_“Yes, I do,” he breathed, leaning closer to her._

_“And I love you. Let’s do something about it,” she suggested, their faces inches apart._

_To her surprise, Charles answered with determination, “Chapel. Midnight.” He then bent down to kiss her hand before walking away from her and then out of the banquet hall._

Henry’s voice jerked the spouses out of their reveries. “Wolsey, come here!” 

Garbed in his ecclesial robes, Thomas Wolsey stepped to them. “Your Majesty, it would be most benevolent of you if you could extend the olive branch to this charming couple.”

Mary and Charles stared at the prelate with gratitude. Wolsey had already urged Henry to forgive the couple for their transgression, offering to make Charles a duke so that no one could say that Mary and her children, who would all have royal blood, would be beneath the highest station in the society that the Tudors rightfully deserved. _We are in debt to him,_ Mary noted to herself. 

The king breathed out a sigh of irritation. “You have already told that many times, Wolsey.” 

The wedding of Charles Brandon and Princess Mary Tudor had been an extremely clandestine affair, with the witnesses and the priest having been paid for silence. They had managed to guard their secret for only three months because Mary had discovered her pregnancy. They had decided that it would be best to first tell Edmund who would then announce the news to Henry and Catherine, saving them momentarily from being thrown into the fire of the English monarch’s wrath.

 _My younger brother is not happy for me either,_ Mary fretted wordlessly. _Edmund, too, thinks so little of Charles_. The king had been incensed at not only finding out that his sister had eloped, ruining his dynastic plans for her and England, but also at the betrayal of Mary with his best friend – _two betrayals_ , as Henry had called it. The queen was furious that Mary had spurred her nephew for a nobody, insisting that Charles had tricked Mary into marriage, and that it should be annulled.

 _Yet, Charles and I cannot be separated,_ Mary mused as they both kneeled on the dais. _King Henry the Seventh’s grandchild cannot start their life as the baby of a gentleman._ Despite everything, happiness blossomed in her soul like a flower that had been buried under a winter snow for too long without affection. It felt so right and so good to be with Charles, to know that she would not travel to the Low Countries, to be united with the man of her dreams in holy matrimony. 

Mary Tudor perused her husband. Charles Brandon was the most handsome man at court! Only slightly shorter than the tall King Henry, Charles was muscular and athletic, and an ache stirred in her belly at the remembrance of their nights spent together. With humorous blue eyes, of fine presence and bearing, Charles had strong, chiseled features. He was garbed in a rich raiment of tawny satin embroidered with threads of silver, his toque of black silk festooned with a white feather. 

“You have both wronged us,” the monarch hurtled at them coldly.

“There are no words to describe what you did, Mary.” Catherine spoke calmly while seething inwardly. If she were in less control of her emotions, she would have sneered at the couple, unable to fathom out how her sister-in-law could fall so low, despite Mary’s words about love. Ire again prevailing in her inner realm, the queen declared, “You could have been an empress, just as your sisters are queens. God be thanked that my nephew and his grandfather has not exited our alliance.” 

Mary responded in a clipped tone, “I meant no insult towards Your Majesty’s nephew, but I would prefer to be Mary Brandon in a marriage based on love instead of politics.” Strong-willed and stubborn, she would not let Catherine call her marriage a mistake. 

Catherine did not respond. To the spouses’ surprise, Henry’s face softened as he looked over at Edmund, who stood to the right from his throne. Everyone in attendance froze in anticipation. 

The ruler’s expression hardened as his scrutiny shifted back to his sister and her husband. “Do not make a mistake: it is only the affection I have for both of you that stops me from punishing you severely. I’m not rewarding you by bestowing a dukedom upon you, but I wish for my nephew or niece to be born as the son of a duke.” Narrowing his eyes, Henry supplemented, “After we are done with France, you shall spend some time away from court and will pay a big fine.”

The monarch signaled for Mary to step back, and his sister complied. The ceremonial sword was brought to him as the monarch stood up. Absolute silence reigned in the room.

As Charles continued kneeling, Henry placed the sword on his shoulders. “We hereby grant you the Dukedom of Suffolk and the Earldom of Lincoln, with all privileges and rights pertaining to this rank. We hope that one day, you shall become worthy of these privileges, Your Grace.” 

The new Duke of Suffolk tipped his head. “I shall do everything for Your Majesty.” 

The ruler waved his head. “You are dismissed, _Your Graces of Suffolk_.”

The ennobled spouses curtsied and bowed, then rapidly strode away from the dais.

As they exited, there was a ripple of envious amusement among the nobles, who loathed that the Brandon upstart had received a dukedom. There were more honors to be granted today – knighthoods to young, worthy men such as Anthony Knivert, William Compton, and Francis Bryan. 

ξξξξξ

Once the ceremonies were over, the King of England dismissed everyone, save Prince Edmund and Queen Catherine. For a short time, they watched Henry pace back and forth, his fists tightly clenched, his expression thunderous and simultaneously pensive, as if he needed to collect his wits. 

“You were right, brother,” began Henry as he halted near the thrones. “Mary is really certain that she will be more content with Charles than if she became a queen or an empress.”

“I usually am,” Edmund commented, his lips tugging upwards into a smile.

The monarch collapsed into his throne, his head hitting the back of it. “Don’t push it,” he growled, giving his sibling a sharp glare. He then glanced at a scowling Catherine. “Sweetheart, I’ve spoken to the Imperial ambassador, and he has assured me that despite this setback, our alliance will not be broken. We, along with your father, shall attack France, just as the Greeks marched on Troy.”

Catherine heaved a sigh, making the sign of a cross. “Forgive me, my love. I should not be holding such grudges. I just love my family immeasurably, and I feel angry on their behalf when someone slights them, even if it is done by your sister, who is my dear friend.” 

“Understandable,” her husband uttered. He reminded her in a half-teasing, half-stern voice, “However, don’t forget that now the Tudors are your family, and England is your home.” 

“Of course, Henry: I always do my duty to England,” assented Catherine, placing her hand upon her belly, where a new life was growing. God willing this one would live.

Henry burst out laughing and brought her fingers to his lips, kissing each one before speaking again. “That is why I appoint you as supreme regent of England in my absence. No one else deserves this position more than you. When I go to Calais, my country will be in good hands.” 

“Our ancestors must have had the same confidence when they endeavored to conquer France as well,” Edmund pointed out sagaciously. “King Edward the Third defeated the French at Crécy in 1346. His son – Edward the Black Prince – crushed them at Poitiers in 1356. Your favorite king, Henry the Fifth, crippled the French army at Agincourt in 1415 and almost became the next monarch of France. Yet, France was not always on the losing side during the Hundred Years’ War.” 

The ruler’s smile faded away. “And what, Edmund?” 

The prince continued, “Charles the Seventh’s generals used artillery. Just remember the last ten-fifteen battles, including the Battle of Castillon, and the heavy casualties the English suffered.”

“Spare me the history lesson, brother,” Henry huffed with annoyance. “Our ancestors did not have the blessing of His Holiness or the backing of the King of Spain and the Holy Roman Emperor. With them, I’ll emerge victorious, and the Valois usurpers will be deposed.”

“Bess will not be happy at all,” Edmund persevered. His best instincts told him that Henry would run into misadventures in France. “You will be attacking _her_ realm, Henry. She will be in an insane rage that her brother will try to take _her_ kingdom away from her husband and their children.” 

The red-haired monarch barked, “Our sister is an English princess first. She will be faithful to England over France. Moreover, she does not have a son, and I’ll take care of _her daughters_.”

Edmund, always composed and reticent, commenced pacing. _Henry does not realize the hypocrisy of him telling his spouse to be loyal to England over her homeland while insisting that Elisabeth should be true to her birthplace rather than her husband’s country._ Upon learning about Henry’s belligerent intentions, he had wanted to write to Bess about the planned invasion on impulse, but he had not done so – perhaps his brother’s spies were checking his correspondence. 

So far, Catherine sat in her throne in silence. Now she wanted to sway Edmund towards their cause. “Your Highness, your sister must understand that Spain and England have the right to take what is theirs. Our alliance protects us from our mutual enemy.” Her voice was as soft as silk; she entwined her fingers with her husband’s. “Moreover, the alliance with Spain had been concluded well before the one England made with France, whose territories rightfully belong to Henry.”

“The same could be said of Scotland and France, Your Majesty,” the Duke of Somerset pointed out in a chilly voice, stopping near the dais and glowering at the queen. “If we ignore the peace terms my father achieved with France, then what is stopping Scotland doing the same to us?”

At this, Henry stated, “We will crush them both, brother, I promise you that!” 

Catherine squeezed his hand. “My father and Emperor Maximilian will both help you.” 

The king’s eyes glittered with bloodlust. “France will be mine!” 

Edmund eyed the royal couple. Garbed in a splendid doublet of red brocade embellished with jewels, as well as matching hose and a cap of the same fabric, Henry discussed the upcoming war with Catherine, who was coincidentally clad in a gown of burgundy damask, high-necked and adorned with rubies. Their clothes reflected their sanguinary moods and their abhorrence towards the French. _I love Henry and Catherine, but at times, I do not understand them,_ Edmund speculated. 

The prince addressed the queen. “Your Majesty has been a maternal figure in my life, and you are dear to me.” Edmund paused; a grin curved Catherine’s lips. “Nonetheless, I do not comprehend why you hate everything French just because you were taught to feel so in childhood.” 

Catherine’s face was quite a sight to behold: she paled, reddened, and then paled again. Her lips were moving, but no words came out. Yet, her eyes flashed with ire, which she swiftly hid. 

An incensed Henry roared, “Don’t you dare speak to your queen so disrespectfully.” 

Edmund sighed, deciding to leave because it was pointless to argue. His brother would have his war, his wife would not change her opinion, and no force could stop him. 

“Your Majesties.” Bowing to them, the Duke of Somerset hurried out of the chamber. 

* * *

**_June 21, 1514, Palace of the Kings of Navarre of Olite, Kingdom of Navarre_ **

Three royal dynasties assembled in the _Sala del Rey,_ or the King’s room that served mainly for banquet facilities. The walls were swathed in tapestries depicting the life of Aymeri de Narbonne – a hero of old French chansons and Charlemagne’s knight. Although the large Gothic windows were left ajar, the weather was windless, and the day was so hot that everyone’s skin felt as if set aflame even inside the palace, which had been the seat of the Navarrese power starting from the 13th century. 

A large parchment lay on the marble table – a treaty between the kingdoms of France, Navarre, and Portugal. The monarchs approached in turns, signed the document and stamped it. 

Charles d’Amboise, France’s chief minister, spoke in French, for everyone comprehended it well. “Now our countries are connected by binding responsibilities and obligations to defend each other against common enemies and from invasions. May the Lord guide you all to the right path!” 

Louise de Savoy, regent of France, clapped her hands in glee. “This is a historical day!”

King François was not optimistic, unlike his mother. “At first, we will have to deal with the invasion that, according to our ambassador to England and our spies, that Tudor miscreant is planning. He has allied with Emperor Maximilian the First and King Ferdinando the Second de Aragón in their villainous attempt to attack France and Navarre, and to partition them, may God curse them.” 

“We have kept this information secret so far,” Amboise said, “not to spread panic.” 

The ruler of France began pacing the room to and fro. “That is the best course of action for now. Our enemies must not know that we are already aware of their aggressive plans.” 

A long silence ensued as they watched François walk the room back and forth. 

Amboise informed, “A few days ago, I sent an urgent secret message to King James the Fourth of Scotland. He will have to help us and invade England according to our old Auld Alliance.” 

The monarch and the regent of France nodded in unison. 

At twenty, the King of France towered at least a head over the others in the chamber, his brown brows furrowing in both thought and agitation, François resembled a titan in a doublet of blue velvet with golden accents on the placard and on the sleeves, which were wrought with Venetian gold. His head was covered with a toque of azure velvet festooned with three white feathers.

Louise de Savoy mused, _The Lord is sending to France, her sovereign, and us all new trials – that Tudor invasion._ As her eyes locked with those of Charles d’Amboise, she read the same thoughts in them, as well as his worry about her and François, whom Charles loved as his own son. 

The French chief minister stood a few respectful paces away from his secret beloved. Concern flashed in his eyes at the sight of Louise’s pallor, accentuated by her yellow gown embroidered with rubies, her stomacher of red silk. In her mid-thirties, Louise was slender and glowed in her mature splendor. A diamond tiara adorned her head, on the nape of which a chignon was arranged. 

King Jean of Navarre began pacing as well. “That vile schemer Ferdinandoo de Aragón has long dreamed of annexing Navarre or at least our southern lands. His greedy soul yearns for conquests.” 

His wife, Queen Catherine of Navarre, seated herself into a rosewood chair. “We can only hope for our allies’ strength. Our own troops will not be able to repel Ferdinando’s raids.” 

Jean landed into a matching chair beside his wife. “I do not possess military talents, although I’ll lead my small army into battle. I’m certain that you, Catherine, will join me.” 

With a cordial smile, Catherine extended her hand and linked it with her husband’s, as if they were two halves. “My dearest Jean, have we ever been apart? In sickness and in health!” 

“Always together, _mon amour_ ,” Jean murmured, kissing her hand. 

Attentive and pensive, King Manuel of Portugal and Prince Miguel, his eldest son, lounged in rosewoods chairs next to the Navarrese queen. Their gazes flicked from Jean to Catherine. 

In her mid-forties, Queen Catherine of Navarre still held the charm of her youth, despite being rather plump after having birthed many children. Her face, marred by a few wrinkles under her eyes and on her cheekbones, was still a pleasing sight to behold. She was attired in a high-necked gown of tawny silk, embellished with diamonds and rubies, with a long train and airy sleeves. Her eyes of the honey color exuded warmth and matched her dark blonde hair, made in a sophisticated bun.

Catherine was a daughter of Magdalena de Valois and Gaston de Foix, Prince of Viana, who had been the heir of his mother, Eleanor of Navarre. Catherine’s brother – François I of Navarre – had ruled for a short time; upon his death, she had inherited the throne. Catherine had married Jean d’Albret from a high-ranking Gascony family, and they had thirteen children, although they had buried seven. Prince Henri, born in 1503 and betrothed to Françoise d’Alençon, was their heir. 

_The Navarrese royal couple are happy together,_ Manuel noted to himself. _Unlike her husband, Queen Catherine has a fighting spirit, and I can imagine her leading warriors in battle._ Only one year younger than his wife, Jean of Navarre looked like a middle-aged man, though not depleted of vitality, and his greying hair, visible from beneath a black silk toque, was thick and well looked after. Jean’s doublet of black damask, ornamented with the Albert arms, emphasized his slimness. 

Miguel approved of this alliance despite Maria de Aragón’s, Manuel’s second wife, irritation. Their trip resulted not only in Miguel’s marriage to Princess Marguerite of France, but also in the betrothal of Prince João of Portugal, Manuel’s second son, to Princess Quiteria of Navarre. 

Gaston de Foix, a cousin to both Catherine and François, entered the conversation. Before, he had been silent, standing in the corner. “Your Majesties! I’ll not allow anyone to destroy or annex our kingdoms. France has not been involved in any conflicts for years. Since I was appointed as Constable of France, I’ve ensured that our armies are well trained and well equipped with weapons.” 

François halted and tumbled into a high-back armchair upholstered in green brocade. “Gaston, cousin of mine,” he addressed the other man. “I trust you to defend Navarre with our southern army.”

Every pair of eyes was riveted to Gaston, Duke of Nemours. He was a maternal nephew of King Louis XII of France, and the only son of Jean de Foix, Viscount de Narbonne, and his wife, Marie d’Orléans. At twenty-five, Gaston had a muscled physique and was of average height, his attractive and high-cheekboned face quite remarkable with sharp, green eyes. Gaston’s brown doublet and hose, worked with silver, matched his plumed cap and the color of his short, brunette hair. 

“I shall.” Gaston dipped his head. “What about Your Majesty?” 

The Valois ruler declared, “Anne de Montmorency and I will march with our eastern army on Picardy, where we will join with our northern troops commanded by Jacques de La Palice.” 

Louise’s eyes widened fractionally. “Son, you will go into battle, won’t you?” 

A serious François slid his gaze to his mother. “I’m a knight, not a coward. The Lord made me the King of France, and it is my sacred duty to defend my people and land from all perils.” 

King Jean, King Manuel of Portugal, and Prince Miguel all nodded in concurrence.

“My _Knight-King_ ,” murmured Louise, sending an affectionate glance to her son. 

Amboise promised, “Your Highness the Queen Mother, I shall defend King François with my life. I’ll accompany him on this campaign. There are enough councilors at our court.” 

“Thank you, Monsieur d’Amboise,” expressed Louise with relief, feeling oddly dizzy. 

Queen Catherine uttered, “Cousin Gaston, all the Navarrese hopes for salvation rest on you.” 

“I shall not disappoint my sovereign, France, and Navarre,” pledged Gaston.

Amboise settled himself on a bench by a window. “I feel horrible that I arranged the marriage of Your Grace’s sister, Madame Germaine de Foix, to King Ferdinando de Aragón.” 

Eight years ago, King Ferdinando II de Aragón had intended to attack Navarre. France’s chief minister had brokered peace with Ferdinando, having signed the Treaty of Blois of 1506 according to which the peace had been established between Aragon, Castile, France, and Navarre, cemented by the marriage of Ferdinando to Germaine de Foix. Ferdinando had also hoped to sire a male heir on his young wife, but their son – Juan de Aragón, Prince of Girona – had passed away in infanthood. 

Amboise released a sigh. “Now the Treaty of Blois means nothing.” 

Louise eased herself into a chair beside her son. “Monsieur d’Amboise, your diplomatic efforts earned years of peace for France and Navarre. It is not your fault that there will be war soon.” 

Gaston half-lamented, half-hissed, “My sister, Germaine, rarely writes to me, as though we were not relatives.” A sneer curled his lips. “I’ll return her husband to her bed beaten like a dog.” 

François, Gaston, and Amboise all guffawed. The others smiled maliciously. 

At last, King Manuel of Portugal spoke in his thickly accented French. “Portugal will abide by our treaty. We will help you deal with Ferdinando de Aragón. At present, Ferdinando – as sly as a fox – is mobilizing his armies to march on Navarre, but we will create a diversion for him.” 

Prince Miguel uttered in ebullient accents, “Once Ferdinando’s troops will reach Navarre, we will attack the Castilian border with Portugal. A shaken Ferdinando will have to divide his army into two parts: one will remain in Navarre, while the other will rush to Castile to confront us.” 

Manuel measured his heir with a proud glance. “That is exactly what we will do.” 

Vitriol spilled out of Queen Catherine’s mouth. “I’ve always loathed Ferdinando. His appetites for conquests and power are so insatiable that no amount of food can satisfy him.” 

“I shall squash that Aragonese villain, cousin,” avouched Gaston de Foix. 

King François addressed Jean and Catherine. “Your Majesties, I’ll not be in Navarre, but I fully trust Gaston. With God’s help, Gaston’s men and your forces will utterly vanquish Ferdinando.” 

Louise chimed in, “But my son will not be protected by you in the north, Gaston.”

Gaston glanced at the regent of France. “Your Highness, please be at ease. His Majesty will be with Anne de Montmorency, who is young and yet has a brilliant military mind.” 

Louise nodded, only slightly relieved. Amboise added, “I shall be with our liege lord, too.” 

François noticed as the two secret lovers smiled at each other, grinning to himself. “Don’t worry about me. Kings must be in the saddle and on the battlefield, defending their country.”

Queen Catherine declared, “I’m a granddaughter of Charles the Seventh of France, who won the Hundred Years’ War. I shall be with Gaston and Jean, inspiring our soldiers.” 

“Always together,” said Jean, their hands still entwined. 

His brows knitted in anger, young Miguel snarled, “I’ll participate in the attack on Castile. I do not acknowledge that devil Ferdinando as my grandfather. There can be no peace between us. I’ll show him that his heir, Charles von Habsburg, will have _a dangerous neighbor_ in the future.” 

François regarded the Portuguese prince affably. “I’m proud that Your Highness is my brother-in-law. My Margot is fortunate to have such a brave and honorable husband.” 

Louise commended, “I’m elated that my daughter, who grew up in the atmosphere of chivalrous culture I created at our court, has a husband capable of understanding her spirit.” 

At this, Miguel blushed. “My wife, Margot, is a beautiful flower of intelligence.” 

Charles d’Amboise, Louise, and the Valois monarch exchanged satisfied smiles. 

François’ scrutiny darted between Miguel and Manuel. “From now onwards, you are not only the neighbors of Ferdinando and his eldest grandson and heir, Charles, but also their _formidable rivals_. Our treaty transfers the old Valois claim to the throne of Naples, which our family inherited from Duke Louis I d’Anjou, to my sister, Margot, and to Your Highness, Prince Miguel, as her husband.” 

Manuel offered, “We can all address each other by names.” The others tipped their heads. 

The Valois ruler pronounced, “Miguel and Manuel, my mother and I want to see Margot crowned Queen of Naples in addition to her now being Princess of Portugal. France will support your bid for the Neapolitan kingdom that should not be ruled by any Aragonese viceroys.” 

Usually mellow-tempered, Manuel growled, “Depriving Ferdinando and his heir, Charles, of Naples would be their punishment for the exclusion of Miguel from the Castilian and Aragonese succession by the Catholic monarchs.” His voice rose to a crescendo. “If the Spanish nobles support Isabella of Castile’s wish to make Charles their future sovereign, we shall take Naples from them.” 

An athletic man of forty-five, King Manuel of Portugal now looked like a lion that was about to devour its prey. His brown hair was visible from beneath a cap of red velvet. As his ire abated, an aura of gentleness blanketed him. Unlike Jean, his almost coeval, Manuel looked younger. Manuel’s ensemble consisted of an orange doublet in the Iberian style, ornamented wild gold, and matching hose of the same material. A bejeweled cross suspended from a golden chain around his neck. 

Miguel stated, “Sooner or later, I shall take Naples from Ferdinando and his heirs.” 

His gaze lingering on the tapestry of the wedding of Aymeri de Narbonne, François jested, “I’ll not be astonished if you, Miguel, conquer Naples, just as Charlemagne’s knight, Aymeri, subjugated Narbonne and then married Princess Hermengarde. Do you remember what they accomplished?” 

Manuel recalled, “Aymeri and his son defeated the Saracens.” 

Miguel exclaimed, “I love this medieval epic romance!” 

Louise de Savoy burst out laughing. “Aymeri and Hermengarde fathered seven sons.” 

Amboise supplemented, “Each of whom was quite successful and eventually came to the court of Charlemagne. Maybe Princess Margot and Prince Miguel will have a similar future.” 

Queen Catherine joked, “They will conceive one of their sons in Naples.” 

Gaston de Foix issued a jest. “I heard that it is as hot in Naples as it is in Navarre.” He took a sheet of paper from a nearby table and used it as a fan. “You will not need a blanket, then.” 

They broke into merry laughter, even the reticent Manuel. Miguel blushed profusely.

ξξξξξ

Although political deliberations unfolded in the presence chamber, the French Queen Mother excused herself and left. Louise felt rather weak as waves of dizziness and nausea kept assailing her at intervals. Accompanied by her three ladies-in-waiting, she headed to the Queen’s gallery, which was a small garden for the exclusive use of the queen, located close to Queen Catherine’s apartments. _Maybe fresh air will reinvigorate me,_ Louise hoped silently as they arrived at the garden.

One of her ladies-in-waiting and her confidante was Marie de Luxembourg, a widow of François de Bourbon, Count de Vendôme. Long after his father’s death that had occurred in 1495, Marie’s eldest son – Charles de Bourbon – had been elevated to Duke de Vendôme by King François to reward his cousin for his loyalty to the House of Valois. Her other children had received new titles. 

“Your Highness, are you unwell?” quizzed Marie de Luxembourg with concern.

Louise dragged a deep breath, and the hot air nearly burned her lungs. She exhaled sharply. “It is the heat,” she complained. “The Navarrese climate is not suitable for my health.” 

There were beads of sweat on Marie’s forehead. “I can barely endure it as well.”

Louise forced a smile. “We will be leaving Navarre soon.”

“After you say goodbye to your dearest daughter,” Marie noted ruefully. 

The others gave nods. None of them wanted to see Princess Margot gone from France.

“I don’t wish to part with my beloved Margot,” Louise admitted, and tears prickled the back of her eyes. “However, it is the fate of every royal woman to do her duty to her family and country. I’m most delighted that her husband, Prince Miguel, is a strong, courageous, and cultured man.” 

Marie observed, “Our princess has swept His Highness off of his feet.” 

The Queen Mother grinned jocundly, while her maids nodded and giggled. 

Louise examined the surroundings. The queen’s privy garden lay within the nice surrounding hanging gardens, located several meters high. The special room known as _the Arches_ had been built to substantiate the gallery. Now they were in the midst of verdant foliage and multicolored blossoms, separated from the palace by high arches with lovely Gothic tracery with ornaments at the top.

Again, a bout of intense nausea hit Louise so hard that her stomach lurched. She wobbled and placed a hand to her mouth. Marie raced to the regent and wrapped her arm around her waist. 

The two other maids chorused, “Your Highness, should we fetch a physician?” 

“Madame Louise, you might be having a heat stroke,” hypothesized Marie. 

The regent of France disentwined herself from Marie. “No, I’m fine.” 

Marie also felt close to fainting. “I’m waiting for the evening.” 

Nodding at her handmaidens, Louise stepped back and leaned against one of the arches. A wave of nausea assaulted her again, sending a substantial amount of bile into her throat. She would have started retching if it did not recede quickly. Louise counted the number of days since her last period. She blanched to the color of ash: _I must be pregnant. I had such symptoms in the past._

“Your Highness, you are so pale,” noted a worried Marie. 

The regent laughed off the matter, saying, “My dear Marie, it is the heat.” 

A moment later, Louise saw Charles d’Amboise enter the garden. A gust of fright blew through her as she pondered the implications of her delicate situation. How was it possible? For years, since the birth of their secret son, Georges, she and Charles had been very careful during their surreptitious rendezvous – he had always pulled out to prevent her pregnancy. But she had still conceived! _Yet, there were a few times when we threw all caution to the winds in the grip of passion,_ she recalled. 

Charles halted near her and flourished a bow. “Your Highness, is something wrong?” 

Louise weighted options and formulated the best course of action. There was only one way out for them: they would have to confess everything to François and hope for his benevolence _._

Louise instructed, “Monsieur d’Amboise, we need to urgently talk with François.” 

The chief minister surveyed her in surprise. “Their Majesties are still discussing the treaty.” 

“After they are done,” began Louise in a low voice, “we will have a serious private talk.” 

Charles was getting nervous. “I’ll do as you wish, Madame.” 

Casting a puzzled glance at the regent, Amboise bowed and then strode away. 

ξξξξξ

As the sun started its downward journey, a light breeze from the mountains brought with it a pleasant coolness. Prince Miguel of Portugal and his spouse, Princess Marguerite, stood on one of the three balconies inside the _‘Torre de los cuatro vientos o de las Tres Grandes Finestras,’_ or the Big Three Finestras’ Tower. From here, monarchs watched the shows held at the foot of the castle.

Miguel glanced at Marguerite, as usual slightly embarrassed in her presence. “Do you feel well, Your Highness? Was everything to your liking during the day and… erm… our nights?” 

His wife laughed facetiously. Her mother had told her that the prince would outgrow his shyness once they would get to know one another better. “Of course. Why are you worried?” 

“I do not wish to disappoint you,” he confessed, blushing even more. 

They spoke in Spanish because Marguerite’s command of this language was excellent. 

Marguerite looked into his eyes warmly. “How can you make me chagrined, Miguel? We have known each other only for ten days since our wedding, but we corresponded for years before.” 

The princess scrutinized her husband. At his almost sixteen, Miguel of Portugal was quite a tall and well-build teenager, slim in waist but with a muscular upper body. With his pale complexion, the handsomeness of his youthful face was enhanced by his bright and clever, pale blue Trastámara eyes, which he had inherited from his mother – the late Princess Isabel of Asturias. Miguel had an aquiline nose and thick, blonde brows, which matched his hair covered with a toque of violet silk. 

_Miguel is six years younger than me,_ Marguerite remarked to herself _, but this difference is not noticeable. At least not yet._ She sighed as her gaze traversed his form clad in a doublet of mulberry and red brocade, ornamented with diamonds and slashed with violet satin. She noticed the difference between the Italian fashions François had made his tailors copy and the Portuguese fashions: Miguel’s clothes were not as lavishly adorned with jewels as those of French aristocrats were. 

Boldness rushed through him. “Can I call you Margot?” 

Her grin broadened. “Most definitely! My brother, mother, and cousins always do so.” 

“Margot,” pronounced Miguel, as if tasting her name on his tongue. “Marguerite,” he said, his rich voice playing with the syllables. “I cannot decide what I like more.” 

“Why, Miguel?” The princess directed her gaze towards the darkening firmament. 

The prince laughed blithesomely, as if the sound of her name had elevated him to a realm of rarefied happiness. “Your name means a southern exotic flower. There are two types of such flowers: marguerite daisy and cobbity daisy, both native to the Canary Islands.” A sudden flash of ire instigated him to approach the railing and grip it tightly. “I could have made you the Queen of Castile and Aragon, whose realms include the Canary Islands, but I was robbed of my inheritance.” 

His wife stepped to him and placed a gentle hand upon his back. “Don’t dwell on things you cannot have, Miguel, or which you cannot have now, for nobody knows their destiny.” 

He pivoted to her and clasped her hands in his. “One day, you and I will rule Portugal together. Your incredible mind and stellar education have impressed me as much as your beauty has done.” 

Marguerite let out a chuckle. “So, you like Margot more, don’t you?” 

“It seems so.” He kissed her hands. “You are awesome.” 

“My name also means a pearl,” she added, mesmerized by his smile.

Margot bloomed like a well-watered plant. She had feared that she would not be able to show her willful and fierce nature to her husband. Did Miguel really see clever women as men’s intellectual equals? Or would he demand obedience and childbearing from her if his ardor towards her cooled off? After all, according to the Church’s teachings, marriage was for procreation, not for pleasure. 

Her brother, King François, treated his queen well and enjoyed their intimacies, but he had many mistresses. Her brother’s lovers had produced his bastards, including several boys. _Elisabeth birthed her third girl, Yolande, and she must have recovered by now, but it is difficult for her to know that she has so far failed to give my brother a son._ Despite their cordial attitude to Bess, both Louise and Margot were privately alarmed that there was no Dauphin of France in the royal crib yet. 

Marguerite’s mind drifted to her first love – Gaston de Foix, Duke de Nemours. A few years ago, they had been entangled romantically, having exchanged personal letters and poems. Margot had already been betrothed to Prince Miguel. When Louise de Savoy had learned about it, she had put an end to their secret romance. Marguerite and Gaston had pleaded with her to let them marry, but it had not been possible. Louise had not relented, for her daughter was destined to become queen.

Her heart skipped a beat. _Gaston was a witness on my wedding to Miguel,_ Marguerite thought. _I could see the pain in his eyes, although he concealed it well._ In her eyes, Gaston was a young, perfect, and handsome knight, and she was still attracted to him, but her former obsession to marry the Duke de Nemours had ended. Now Marguerite wished that Gaston forgot her and moved on.

Marguerite asked forthrightly, “What if I cannot give you male heirs, Miguel?” 

A befuddled Miguel knitted his brows. “Margot, we are young, so don’t be worried.” 

“What if I give you only girls, like my sister-in-law? I love my three wonderful nieces, but they cannot be heirs to the French throne. Will you treat me well if I fail in fulfilling my wifely duty?” 

He sought to reassure her. “There is no Salic law in Portugal, unlike France. Even if we don’t have any children, then it will be the Almighty’s will, and I have several brothers.” 

Marguerite emitted a sigh of relief. Indeed, the male line of the House of Aviz was secure: in addition to Miguel, King Manuel’s eldest heir, Queen Maria of Portugal had birthed five sons. 

“Will we really co-rule together, Miguel?” Marguerite’s eyes were brightened by an elation that was burgeoning inside her. “Your father’s wife devotes herself entirely to her offspring.” 

Miguel unlocked their hands and said in the most sincere tones, “King Manuel is a pious, capable monarch, a gentle father. However, I’m far less traditional: I see marriage in a different way.” 

A surge of tenderness towards him washed over Marguerite. “I’m happy, then.” 

All at once, Margot stepped aside and averted her scrutiny. An ambiguous silence ensued as they observed the sun’s disk slip behind the Pyrenees. The royal palace was encircled from all sides by an amphitheater of the mountains and the woods, boasting an amazing variety of flora and fauna. 

The princess turned towards the adjoining tower with a square base. “Foreign royals must be aware of the happenings at the French court. Ambassadors send letters to their masters containing the most piquant details. As François once said, ‘ _A court without ladies is like a year without springtime, or a spring without roses._ ’ It sounds so beautiful! All women are utterly charmed.” She quoted the famous statement which François had pronounced during one of the festivities at Blois a year ago. 

The prince had read a lot about the King of France’s amatory escapades and speeches on banquets in the letters from the Portuguese ambassador at the Valois court. “Margot, I’ve grown fond of your brother during our stay here, and I have no right to judge him. However, I swear that I shall treat you like a flower, and I shall not have any paramours, just as my father does not.” 

She swung around to face him. “Aristotle claimed, ‘ _Words might be like water_.’ Isn’t it so?” 

“Philosophers play with words to create their fundamental works. We treasure and study their ancient texts, which laid foundation for Renaissance humanism. But not all of them are true.” 

“I want to believe you.” Hope glimmered in her eyes. 

“I’ll make you Queen of Naples, Margot. It will be my gift to myself, your family, and you.” 

“And your revenge on the Catholic monarchs,” she inferred, and he nodded. 

The shadows of the evening grew deeper. A string of memories cascaded through their heads.

The Portuguese party had sailed from Lisbon to the port of Bordeaux, France. King Manuel had not considered traveling through the territory of their sworn enemy – Spain. At first, the wedding of Miguel and Marguerite had been planned at Château de Cognac, located not far from the city of Bordeaux. Nonetheless, the urgent news from England about the invasion had altered their plans: the Kings of France and Portugal had voyaged to Navarre in order to sign the three-party treaty. 

The modest ceremony had been attended only by the Navarrese, Portuguese, and French royals. On the Feast of St Barnabas the Apostle, the bride and bridegroom had exchanged their marital vows in _the Capilla de San Jorge_ , or St. George’s chapel, which had been constructed in the early 14th century at the behest of Eleanor of Castile, wife of King Charles III of Navarre. Then a luxurious feast had been organized at the palace in the southern style, and the consummation had followed. 

Marguerite’s cheeks blushed like a lush rose. _At least, we were not watched by half of the court on our wedding night. Thanks be to God, François repudiated this odd tradition when he married Elisabeth._ Remembrances of their first time inundated her head. Miguel and she had been awkward, but he had apparently known what to do. There had been not much pain because Miguel had been exceedingly gentle, just as he was on their other nights, during which both of them remained reserved. 

Miguel eyed Marguerite with affection. _I like Margot’s dark complexion, with amber eyes and chestnut hair, which contrasts sharply with my pale one,_ he mused. Over her low-cut gown of caramel brocade embroidered with pearls and triangles of bronze damask, his wife wore a surcoat of purple tissue, and a short mantle of the same material lined with ribbons of red satin. A necklace of diamonds and onyxes adorned her bosom; her toque of black velvet was festooned with tulle and an affiquet. 

The prince extended his hand to Margot. “Should we go to a nearby garden?” 

His spouse took it with a smile. “Yes, Miguel. It is not hot now, so we can stroll.” 

ξξξξξ

Miguel and Marguerite left the balcony, descended from the tower, and went to the garden known as _Jardín del Cenador_ , featuring olive trees, cypresses, pines, and platanes, which were planted between fountains. They did not notice that King Manuel of Portugal had come to another balcony and observed them for quite some time, although he had not heard their entire conversation. 

Manuel saw Miguel and Marguerite wandering in the garden illuminated by torches. He liked the French princess, although she was not like any of his own daughters – docile and traditional in all senses. “Marguerite de Valois does not care about embroidery,” he voiced his thoughts. “She is pious, but Marguerite is interested in enlightenment and all things progressive and intellectual.” 

A tremor of presentiment slithered down Manuel’s spine. Marguerite would not be liked by his wife, Maria de Aragón. His spouse would also hate that Manuel had arranged the engagement of their eldest son, João, to a Navarrese princess without even consulting with her. Maria hated the French due to her Castilian upbringing, but Manuel, who loved his wife, did not allow her to meddle into state affairs. _Princess Quiteria is only three years older than João, so they are a good match._

Manuel smiled at the sight of the couple’s entwined hands. “I shall never reconcile with Aragon and Castile, regardless of what my wife thinks and despite my strong affection for Maria.” 

ξξξξξ

In late evening, the Valois family members assembled in _the Cámara de los Yesos or Sala Mudéjar_ , or the Mudéjar large chamber. A tearful Louise embraced Marguerite affectionately. A sullen François stood nearby, his spirits low due to his unwillingness to part with his only sister. 

As Marguerite and Louise pulled away, the Queen Mother led her to an ornately carved bench. They seated themselves there, and Louise commenced giving Margot recommendations how to adjust to her life in Portugal. At the same time, François examined the room’s decorations: many panels made in plaster by Morisco masters, which represented heraldic shields, stars, bows, Islamic geometric patterns from the place’s Saracen past, and vegetal decoration. 

Marguerite lamented, “Queen Maria of Portugal will not welcome me.” 

Louise allayed, “It matters not what she thinks. King Manuel of Portugal is Spain’s sworn foe, and she cannot change it – he himself was eager to see you married to his eldest heir.” 

François eased himself into a mahogany chair, its high back adorned with the Navarrese heraldry. “Prince Miguel is captivated by you, sister, and he may fall in love with you soon.” 

Louise nodded vigorously. “How can he not be enamored of our Margot?” 

The monarch predicted, “Sister, you will be the most cultured person at the Portuguese court. This will awaken jealousy in the hearts of Queen Maria and her friends. Most Portuguese nobles hate the Spanish, so they will naturally be your allies. Yet, there will always be enemies and enviers.”

“I know that.” A pensive Marguerite gazed between her relatives. “Miguel loves his stepmother and aunt, for Queen Maria raised him as her own son. I cannot say anything bad about her to him or King Manuel, so I’ll have to tread extremely carefully around her.” 

François tipped his head. “My beloved Margot, maintain regular correspondence with us. You can always tell me everything, and I can try to influence Manuel and Miguel.” 

“We are allies, after all,” emphasized Louise de Savoy, squeezing her daughter’s hand. 

Marguerite spoke. “Our cousin – Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme – will accompany me to Lisbon. Will I be able to send secret messages to you through the French ambassador to Portugal?” 

“Yes, through our ambassador,” confirmed the ruler. “I’ve explained everything to the Duke de Vendôme during our stay in Navarre. Charles will warn our ambassador.” 

Louise tucked a strand of Marguerite’s hair behind her ear. “Our channels of communication are all reliable. I wish to know everything about you, especially when you find yourself pregnant.” 

Marguerite bristled. “It will happen in due time, Mother. I’m not in a hurry.” 

The Queen Mother shook her head. “You have to provide Miguel with a male heir, and it would be better to have at least two sons so that one of them can rule Naples in the future.” 

“You might already be carrying your husband’s child,” assumed François. 

The regent of France and the king traded glances, which were clear only to the two of them. 

“Indeed,” agreed Louise. “You have spent ten nights together since your wedding.” 

Blush colored Margot’s cheeks. “I’m still uncomfortable to speak about such things.” 

“You will get used to a married life,” the Queen Mother claimed. “Quite quickly.” 

Margot riposted, “My beloved brother still has a collection of pretty women devoted to him.”

“My personal life is none of anyone’s business.” His voice took on an authoritative quality. 

Nevertheless, Margot continued, “Elisabeth is like a beloved sister to me.” 

The king’s amber eyes flashed. “I respect my wife a great deal. I’ll not discuss it.” 

Louise knew that any attempt to change the situation would lead to an argument. “Daughter of mine, you are leaving us on the morrow. Can we spend the remaining hours in tranquility?” 

Marguerite launched herself headlong into Louise’s arms. “I love you so much, Mother!” 

Louise tightened their embrace. “My dearest, I must part with a piece of my soul!” 

François informed, “I spoke to Miguel and offered to meet in France or Navarre with you and him from time to time. He likes this idea, so we will see each other sooner or later.” 

The mother and her daughter disentangled from one another. François stood up and came to them, then hoisted his sister to her feet and gathered her into the circle of his arms. 

After what seemed an eternity, the ruler extricated himself from their hug. With a wistful grin, he declared, “Go to Portugal, Margot, and impress everyone with your French charm and manners. Show to them all that the Valois court cannot be outshined, and make their court similar to ours.” 

“I shall,” pledged Margot, feeling her brother’s hands on her arms. “We have not yet conquered Naples, although I’ll assiduously promote this idea in Portugal and goad Miguel into action.” 

The king beamed at her. “I know that you shall serve France well, sister.” 

“Be careful in battle, brother,” requested Marguerite. “I shall pray for you.” 

A moment later, they wrapped themselves in a collective hug, and then continued talking. 

* * *

**_August 31, 1514, Château de Blois, Blois, the Loire Valley, France_ **

Bright light streamed into the room, bathing the walls, draped in tapestries of landscapes, with a golden glow, making the Queen of France’s jewels sparkle like shimmering gemstones against the alabaster of her skin. Princess Yolande appeared transfixed with her mother’s diamond necklace on Elisabeth’s bosom, and the infant made several attempts to grab the necklace or one of her earrings. No matter how many times Elisabeth adjusted herself or her baby girl, she would not stop.

It took all of the red-haired woman’s willpower not to shout for a nursemaid, or perhaps one of her ladies-in-waiting, who stood nearby, to come and take the restless baby away, leaving her out of the family portrait. As her two older daughters were also sitters for the painting, the infant Yolande had to be there, too. No wonder the youngest of the Valois princesses was so troublesome, for Yolande had been born just before King François’ trip to Navarre more than two months ago.

“Your Majesty, please try not to move,” implored Jean Clouet, his expression concentrated. His scrutiny oscillated between the canvas and the queen with her three daughters. “The portrait is almost ready. You are investing titanic efforts into posing with such small girls, but it will pay off.”

The royal painter, who was a Flemish man of lean build and average height, had a long, narrow face with sharp features. His blue, wide-set eyes were calm and attentive to every subtle movement and everything happening around them. Clouet’s doublet of red and tawny damask, embroidered with silver tread, matched his blonde hair. He had painted the portraits of younger King François, who was fond of him, and his sister, who now was Princess Marguerite of Portugal.

“Mama, would you like me to hold Yolande?” the three-year-old Renée asked from where she and her younger sister sat on soft, red pillows at their mother’s feet.

“No, sweetheart, I can manage,” assured Elisabeth, endeavoring to keep the annoyance out of her voice, for her daughter was only willing to assist her. “I love seeing you all around me.” 

“Why can’t I sit in your lap, and Renée can hold Yolande?” Adèle complained as she put her thumb in her mouth, looking at the baby rather enviously and wishing to be in her shoes.

“Stop sucking your fingers,” the queen demanded brusquely. 

It was not until tears welled up in the two years-old’s eyes did Elisabeth realize she had spoken far too harshly. She dragged in a sharp breath: these were not just young children – the girls were her own daughters. She had to learn patience and handling her children fondly. _My mother would not have spoken to me that way even when I deserved a stern reprimand,_ the queen berated herself. 

Sliding a hand free from Yolande, the queen then cupped her middle daughter’s face. She gently pronounced, “Don’t cry, sweet Adèle! I’m a little tired, and I don’t mean to snap at you. However, that was a very naughty word to call anyone, let alone your baby sister.”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” apologized Adèle, her tears drying. “I thought it was a funny word, not a naughty one.” She brought her fingers to her lips, only for her mother to push her hand back down.

“Mama, why don’t you sit on the floor with us? Then we would all be together like we are on a picnic,” Renée suggested, her eyes lighting up as the idea occurred to her.

Queen Elisabeth beamed at Renée. Going outside would have been easier despite her stiff limbs rather than posing as a sitter. “My precious, but that is a wonderful idea for the next time.”

Thankfully, Yolande fell asleep in her mother’s arms, while her sisters amused themselves by playing with pretty dolls on the floor. Elisabeth flashed a serene smile at them. 

At last, Jean Clouet announced, “It is ready, and you may have a look at it.” 

Immediately, Renée ran to view the painting with Adèle hot on her heels.

“This is amazing, Monsieur Clouet!” assessed Elisabeth after handing Yolande to one of her French maids, instructing her to return the infant to the nursery before examining the painting once more. “The portrait is true to life, and your attention to the detail of our clothes is tremendous.” 

The artist boasted, “A painter can give the depth of characterization even to small children.”

“If he is as talented as you are, Monsieur Clouet,” lauded Elisabeth. She had befriended the young artist, who was in her husband’s high favor, while she had posed as a sitter.

Jean Clouet flourished a bow. “Your Majesty’s praise is my greatest reward.” 

The wonderstruck eyes of the Valois queen and the two princesses were directed at the portrait of the Queen of France with her three daughters, which stood on a high, golden easel.

Queen Elisabeth wore a mantle of gold damask, embroidered with sable on the front and golden fleur-de-lis, over her burgundy brocade gown with a square-cut décolletage, trimmed with black lace. Her hair was done up in an elegant bun with a few red curls falling out of her French hood studded with diamonds. On the pillows, at her feet, sat her Princesses Renée and Adèle, both somber with Renée holding a little Bible in her hand, symbolizing the piety of the queen’s offspring.

Renée, who possessed the Valois dour complexion, had her father’s chestnut hair, arranged in a chignon, and his amber eyes; her brown dress was slashed with lavender satin. The only child who had inherited the queen’s flaming attractiveness, Adèle looked like Elisabeth with her pale green eyes. Adèle’s silk dress was the yellow of sunshine, and her hair fell over her shoulders in a red-gold cascade. Swaddled in a red satin blanket, the baby Yolande, her complexion dark, sat in her mother’s lap, two curious amber pools above her chubby cheeks, a splash of brown hair on her head. 

Elisabeth perused her daughters on the portrait. Then her eyes darted to Renée and Adèle, who both stood beside her. Adèle had been named so after the mother of King Philippe II of France – Queen Adèle de Champagne. Yolande had received her name to honor King Charles VII of France’s mother-in-law – Yolande of Aragon, without whom the French would have found it far more difficult to win the Hundred Years’ War. _François and I have beautiful girls, especially Adèle,_ noted the queen to herself. _But maybe I think so because Adèle, unlike Renée and Yolande, do not have their father’s long nose. Indeed, the long nose is the only imperfection on my husband’s face._

Her thoughts raised her mood, and the queen chortled. “Your father will be delighted.” 

“You look beautiful, Mama,” Renée complimented her. “Papa will be proud of you.” 

“Thank you, darling.” An exhilarated Elisabeth gushed, “I do not see my girls in this painting, but my three little angels.” Her gaze slid to the painter. “Monsieur Clouet, you have captured the light from the window, using it with the upmost perfection to illuminate us, giving us all a divine glow.”

The artist assessed, “Your Majesty has a keen eye for the arts, just as King François does.”

“My lady, may I have a word?” Madame Marie de Montmorency requested as she entered the room, her expression apprehensive. Clearly, she was about to impart some bad news.

“Excuse me, sweethearts, I’ll only be away for a moment,” Elisabeth purred jocundly, tussling her daughters’ hair before following her closest friend to an antechamber nearby.

Two years ago, the queen had arranged the marriage of the former Lady Mary Grey to Anne de Montmorency, who had recently inherited his barony. Despite Montmorency’s lack of remarkable handsomeness and his austere demeanor, Marie, as she was now called, had fallen for him. François had found the idea of marrying one of his boyhood companions to his wife’s best friend a brilliant one. The spouses seemed to be content together, although they did not have children so far. 

Elisabeth’s other ladies had married French nobles as well, in hopes of keeping their posts. Marie continued acting as Elisabeth’s spy, always collecting invaluable pieces of intelligence. 

A nervous Marie began, “Your Majesty… The king’s whore, Marie Gaudin de La Bourdaisière, has been delivered of her child.” She then averted her agitated eyes. 

Although they were English by birth, they rarely used their native tongue these days. 

Elisabeth could make a relevant conclusion by the woebegone look on Mary’s face concerning the gender of her husband’s newest bastard. “What is it?” she inquired in a voice tinged with anguish. 

“Another boy, Your Majesty,” Mary replied. She tossed her head in despair, looking as though she wanted to apologize, but she knew that Elisabeth would not want her pity. 

The French Queen struggled to keep fiery temper in check. It was so very unfair that her husband’s courtesan got to have sons, while she had only daughters. She and François were man and wife, while he and his mistress were cohabitating sinners. _Perhaps it is God’s punishment for François for his carnal vices to have only male bastard. Or is it my punishment for something?_

Bess schooled her features into blandness. “Thank you, Marie. Now I’ll go to a chapel. Please, tell my daughters’ governess to escort them back to the nursery,” she commanded before walking away, her head high, her bearing regal despite the fact that her inner world was shattered like glass. 

ξξξξξ

Queen Elisabeth hastened through the corridors adorned with sculptures. Courtiers curtsied and bowed to her, casting dumbfounded glances at her. Elisabeth quickly passed through the Louis XII wing of the château, which had been built after Louis XII’s death at the behest of Louise de Savoy. 

Swallowing her rising sobs, Elisabeth halted before the entrance to the Saint-Calais Chapel. On the door she saw the royal monograms of King Louis XII and Anne de Bretagne, which had been installed there after their wedding in anticipation of their arrival. Yet, they were not ruling monarchs for long. _Maybe I’m destined for queenship only for a little time, just as the late Queen Anne was._

The queen opened the door and slipped inside. Silence reigned in the chapel bathing in an orange glow of candles. There was no one inside at midday. No longer keeping her tears in check, she let them fall. The chapel had been constructed at the very beginning of Louis XII’s short reign.

Slightly wobbling, Elisabeth strode down the nave, the long train of her gown brushing the floor like words of entreaty to God tumbling from someone’s lips. Her footsteps light and yet echoing in the stillness, the queen hurried to the front wooden pews and settled herself there.

Bess raised her scrutiny to the brightly painted, vaulted ceiling, as though she could see the Creator enthroned in the sky. “Gracious Lord, why do my husband’s mistresses give him sons, while I’m being denied this blessing for three successive years? I fear that…” Her voice faltered. 

A cascade of salty droplets burned the queen’s face, as if a red-hot poker were pressed to her skin. Her eyes were flicking back and forth between lofty stained-glass windows, depicting major episodes in the history of Blois. Her gaze stopped on the golden fleur-de-lis painted on the blue background. _Will François have our marriage annulled if I do not give him a son? We do not love each other…_

She glanced at the statue of the Virgin Mary. Crossing herself, Elisabeth began praying aloud in Latin, “Heavenly Father, I beseech You to let me conceive a son for France. Amen.” 

Memories whirled in her head: François smiling at the news that she had expected their first child, the king taking their firstborn baby girl, Renée, into his arms, and her festive husband playing with the princesses in the gardens of Châteaux de Amboise and de Blois, where the court usually resided. Her thoughts whirled around in her head, always coming back to the ruler for some reason. 

“François,” the queen uttered the syllables. “I’ve failed you. What will you do next?” 

The monarch had never reprimanded his wife for birthing him only girls. He had been a proud father on the days of their first two daughters’ births. François had frequently been seen carrying two bundles – Princesses Renée and Adèle. Nonetheless, when their third daughter, Yolande, had been born, for the first time, she had discerned a flash of disappointment in his eyes. 

Lavish festivities had been organized in honor of Yolande’s birth. Then the monarch had had journeyed to Navarre with his mother and sister. He had been reserved with his wife when he had come to say goodbye to her, for she could not have journeyed with them, confined to her apartments until her churching. Marguerite, whom Bess loved as her own sister, had embraced her cordially, but she saw alarm in her gaze. Louise’s happiness with another granddaughter had been subdued. 

_They are all chagrined,_ inferred Elisabeth wordlessly, fresh tears moistening her eyes. _They fear that I’m incapable of giving my husband a son and secure the Valois succession._ She had heard the whisperings of her French ladies-in-waiting behind her back, who had looked at her with apparent pity every time one of her husband’s mistresses had birthed a boy. They had all wondered what kind of fate the Queen of France from once hostile England would have due to her failures. 

Louise de Savoy’s voice jerked Bess out of her reveries. “Are you praying for a son so fervently?”

“What else can I do, Madame Louise?” The queen heard the older woman’s footsteps as the regent of France sauntered along the nave towards her. “Marie Gaudin has birthed his _third_ boy!” 

Louise eased herself onto the pew next to her daughter-in-law. “Yes, the news arrived from her spouse’s estates a few hours ago. Just as François wanted, my grandson was named Philibert.” 

“After one of Your Highness’ brothers from the Savoy family.” 

A wan smile flickered across Louise’s expression. “You know history very well. Then it will not be difficult for you to understand how to become the Queen of France loved by her subjects.” 

“How?” The queen’s throat was clogged with tears. “I’m afraid that he will set me aside.” 

The regent stretched her hand and brushed the tears way from the young woman’s face. “Calm down.” Louise stilled to let the queen pull herself together. In a handful of moments, she continued, “You have healed from the birth of Yolande. The thought of discarding you has never crossed my son’s mind. Moreover, there are no suitable grounds for the annulment of your matrimony. Now you need to conceive again: your young and strong body is ready for another pregnancy.” 

Bess tipped her head. “I hope that François will come to my bed soon, but he has not done so since your return from Navarre. However, he regularly summons paramours to his rooms.”

“François has been preparing for something that might wreak havoc in France. Now he might not wish to see you because of–” Louise trailed off, not finishing that the monarch was unwilling to see his English consort due to Henry VIII’s aggression towards France. The king, the regent, and their councilors had decided to keep the tidbits of the planned invasion secret for as long as possible. 

The queen gaped. “What have I done wrong? Why is François furious at me?” 

“Not exactly at you, Bess. However, you will find yourself between the devil and the deep blue sea.” Louise emitted a sigh. “There is little time left before my son’s departure. Later, you will have to try your feminine charms on him. You can seduce him instead of waiting for him to visit you.” 

Elisabeth’s pale green eyes widened fractionally. “Where is he going?” 

“You will learn everything very soon.” The older woman released another sigh. “François often speaks about your bewitching eyes. He is attracted to many women, but he does not love them.”

When his paramours were mentioned, the queen’s whole being whirled in a vortex of primeval anger. “Yet, he has so many affairs that even Your Highness cannot count them.” 

“Indeed, I cannot. And I can do nothing with my son’s amorous temperament.” 

“He wrote many poems about my eyes,” the queen recalled. 

Louise peered into her two green pools full of tempestuous sadness. “They are part of your irresistible charm, which you have not been using, unlike his mistresses. Change your approach.” Taking the younger woman’s hand in hers, she uttered, “Show François that you are his equal. If my son falls in love, he will be devoted to this woman for the rest of his life. It can only be someone who shares his interests in the arts, which you both adore, and who can rule France alongside him.” 

An abashed Elisabeth muttered, “It seems impossible.” 

Louise squeezed her hand. “It will be a long and hard work. After my return to court, I shall insist that you attend Privy Councils. My Margot helped me with state affairs, and François welcomed it – we ruled France for three years together. Now my daughter is already in Portugal.” 

“Do you want me to replace Marguerite? And why is Your Grace leaving?” 

“Elisabeth, you are exceedingly intelligent and need to be groomed for governance. I shall teach you everything I know. I’m leaving for a long pilgrimage to pray for François and the Valois family.” 

This explanation seemed plausible. “The court will miss Your Highness.” 

Louise’s scrutiny veered to the stained-glass portraying Jeanne d’Arc receiving her standard before leaving to lift the siege of Orléans in 1429 during the critical stage of the Hundred Years’ War. “You must prove that a foreign princess married to their sovereign can be as loyal and devoted to their country as their king is. Perhaps you will have to be like Jeanne in some ways.” 

“What does it mean?” Elisabeth climbed to her feet. 

“Let’s go, Bess.” Louise stood up and began walking down the nave. 

Louise and Elisabeth quitted the chapel in grave silence and headed to the palace. 

ξξξξξ

“Oh, François!” moaned Jacquette Andron de Lansac. “Deeper, my majestic ruler!” 

The King of France murmured huskily, “ _Ma chérie_ , you have the soul of a courtesan.” 

Her entire body trembling, she supplied, “Oh, how much I love you!” 

The lovers rested upon a large bed canopied with heavy curtains of blue and white velvet. His mistress’ legs were locked around his waist, and the monarch pounded into her as if tomorrow were their last day alive. In a way, it was true because the king would leave Blois to join his armies on the morrow. François was lost in a universe of desire, and Jacquette knew how to satisfy all his demands. 

Groans and moans mingled together into a lecherous sinfonia. The room’s walls, swathed in tapestries of half-naked nymphs in languid poses, heightened their passion to an extreme degree. She dug her nails into his back, causing him to cry out, and met his every thrust with a thrust of her own. Her fingers entangled into his hair, sweat shining on their skin, the wanton movements of their bodies embodied bacchanalia of the sheer carnal rapture that finally hit them in waves. 

“François!” shrieked Jacquette as her nails scratched across his back. “ _Mon amour!”_

“So many colors!” the monarch breathed as he drove into her deeper. 

His paramour shuddered as a tide of release washed over her. “I’m yours forever.” 

“Oh God!” He kissed her on the lips as tremors of pleasure rocked him. 

In the aftermath, the lovers lay entwined for many minutes, silent like a forest after the heavy rain. The mistress pressed herself against the monarch, and the flick of her tongue as she probed his mouth was more than he could bear. Feverishly, his hands slid between their bodies, to her thighs, and then roved over her well-curved form, each part of which François had learned very well during the past years. Her eyes dazed, Jacquette straddled him and lavished kisses onto his bare torso. 

“You do like lower more.” The mistress giggled as her lips trailed kisses down his stomach. He gasped as she took his manhood into her mouth, his fingers caressing her long tresses. 

“You are talented in this,” the ruler remarked in a voice tinctured with satisfaction. 

Jacquette was artfully inflaming them both further with a prurient fire. Having driven him to the pinnacle, she then kissed his whole body, her hands fondling its most sensitive parts, making François moan, his eyes closed as her lips traveled across his tall form. _François is an awesome lover,_ Jacquette thought. _I cannot imagine my life without him. He can be replaced only with another king._

As they became one once more, the mistress rode François with a frantic rhythm. At intervals, her lips descended to his abdomen and chest until he caught her hands and compelled her to change their position. Now he was atop of her, dominating their salacious dance and guiding them to the acme of enjoyment that for François was disconnected from his emotions. _None of my paramours has ever touched my heart,_ the king noted to himself as he increased the speed of his thrusts. 

When it was all over, Jacquette stretched her body across azure silk sheets. “ _Mon amour,_ I want our children to know their great father. Can I bring our son and daughter to court?” 

His eyes were smoldering amber fires beneath the scowling chestnut brows. “Jacquette, I love all of my children, but I also respect my wife. I’ve never taken a mistress who serves in her household, and none of my paramours has given birth to my bastards at my court. My mother and I married you off, but my son and daughter, as well as our other progeny if we have any, will be taken care of.” 

“Will you come to them?” Jacquette was jealous of him to his many lovers. 

The monarch pulled away. “I might visit them in your husband’s estates.” 

A disheartened Jacquette folded her knees to her chest before complaining, “Our little ones view my husband Alexander as their papa, and he likes that. I want you to be their father.” 

François climbed out of bed. “When they grow up a little, they will learn who I am.” 

The mistresses watched the ruler don his rob of silver brocade. She had birthed Claude in 1512 and Mellin in 1513, each having her spouse’s surname. Alexandre de Saint-Gelais was twenty-five years older than her, and Jacquette despised his dull personality. Her main interest was the King of France, and she dreamed of giving him four children at least, just as Marie Gaudin had done. 

The monarch settled himself on the edge of the bed. “Get dressed and see yourself out.” 

“Why?” Reluctantly, she complied and left the bed, then put on her black satin robe. 

“I’m intending to meet guests, and tomorrow I’ll leave Blois, perhaps for a long time.” 

Jacquette questioned, “Where and why are you departing? Who is coming?” 

The door flung open, and the Queen Mother answered instead of her son, “It is none of your business, Madame de Saint-Gelais. Go to your rooms and don’t disturb us in the evening.” 

The royal harlot glanced pleadingly at the monarch. “Your Majesty?” 

To his lover’s annoyance, the ruler nodded. “I need to rest tonight.” 

Jacquette’s gray eyes met Louise’s blue pools. The regent’s scornful expression was countered by the paramour’s arrogant one. Although Jacquette served in the regent’s household, they both loathed each other, and Madame de Saint-Gelais knew that Louise would throw her out of the royal court if François discarded her. In demonstration of her authority over the king, Jacquette veered her salacious gaze to François, her hands combing through her ash-blonde hair falling down her back. 

François’ wan grin concealed his tension. “Leave, Jacquette.” 

Jacquette lowered herself into a curtsey. “I’ll be waiting for Your Majesty’s call.” 

“Disappear, finally,” Louise barked impatiently. Jacquette glared at her and hastened out. 

“What did you find in that woman, son?” Louise crossed to the bed and frowned at the sight of the tousled bedsheets. “There is so much hauteur in her that I can barely swallow it.” 

Ignoring her displeasure, he asked, “Have Anne de France and Charles d’Alençon arrived?” 

Louise dipped her head. “Yes, they are already lodged in the quarters prepared for them.” 

François stood up. “Excellent. I’ll make an official announcement of Princess Anne being the regent of France in your absence as you, my beloved Mother, will have a long pilgrimage.” 

“Thank you, son.” Louise felt tears in her eyes as the monarch gathered her into his arms. 

As they parted, he stared at his mother with an indescribable fondness. “All will be well.” He then pivoted and headed to the dressing room, calling for his grooms to aid him to dress. 

As it happened often lately, dizziness overcame Louise, forcing her to take the seat on her son’s bed. Images of François’ astonished face as she had confessed to him about her secret bastard son and her current pregnancy flashed in her head. To her and Charles d’Amboise’s surprise, François had not been angry. _My son has long figured out my romance with Charles,_ Louise mused. _François loves me so much! God bless and protect him during the upcoming war against the English invaders._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers and friends! We hope you are safe and cheerful in these difficult days! Be safe!
> 
> Princess Mary Tudor decides to be even bolder than her historical counterpart and marry Charles Brandon, despite being betrothed to Charles von Habsburg, the future Holy Roman Emperor Charles V. Thanks to Thomas Wolsey, not to mention thanks to King Henry’s desire to have his best friend by his side when he invades France and because of his love for his younger sister, Mary and Charles are not punished harshly, and Charles is created Duke of Suffolk. 
> 
> Prince Miguel of Portugal, the eldest son and heir of King Manuel of Portugal, is alive in this AU. He and his father, as well as the Portuguese nobility are profoundly angry that Miguel was passed over to make way for his cousin, Charles. So, they throw their lot with Navarre and France, helping them protect their lands from Spain. As Miguel was excluded from the Castilian and Aragonese succession, Manuel and Miguel consider it a suitable punishment for Ferdinand of Aragon and his heir to deprive them of Naples. King François transferred the old Valois claim to Naples to his sister, and now Miguel has this claim after his marriage to Margot. 
> 
> As mentioned before, Louise de Savoy shall have her own dramatic story line, and it will be one quite interesting. We hope that you like the recent twist in Louise’s life. Marie de Luxembourg, Countess de Vendôme, was indeed Louise’s confidante and friend in history. Marie’s son – Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme – was married to Françoise d’Alençon in history, but in this AU he will have another wife because Francoise is betrothed to Henri d’Albert. 
> 
> We also got a glimpse of Elisabeth’s relationship with her daughters, and of how she has yet to really embrace her role as a mother, having to remind herself that she is dealing with small children instead of grown adults. Elisabeth is trying to befriend French painters and artists, one of them the famous French Renaissance painter and portraitist Jean Clouet, who was a personal friend of King François. We also see the queen’s reaction to the news of her husband’s mistress having a son as well as her close relationship with Louise as they talk in the Saint-Calais Chapelle. So far, Bess has no idea as to her brother’s planned aggression, and once she learns about it, she will indeed find herself between the devil and the deep blue sea, just as Louis points out. In later chapters, Elisabeth will have to pass a complex test as Queen of France. 
> 
> François and Elisabeth will have a rocky and difficult relationship for quite some time, but there are many things they have in common. They both need to grow up to be ready for true love. Jacquette Andron de Lansac, one of the king’s mistresses, will have a unique character arc.
> 
> The descriptions of royal palaces and the description of the Saint-Calais Chapel at Château de Blois are historically correct. At Blois, so far only the Louis XII wing exits; the famous François I wing in the Renaissance style will be built between 1515 and 1518, just as it happened in history.  
>    
> Many thanks to our friend who provided invaluable assistance in editing the story.
> 
> Yours sincerely,  
> VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance


	7. Chapter 6: The Frankness of Royals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the drama with France and Scotland, Catherine and Edmund have a heart to heart. Elisabeth deals with the fallout of her brother's actions, but before she can earn the trust of her subjects, she must first prove herself to her husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers and friends,  
> My co-author, Lady Perseverance, was admitted the hospital the day before yesterday. We are all hopeful she will get better. In meantime she will be in our hearts and prayers.  
> Sincerely, VioletRoseLily

**Chapter 6: The Frankness of Royals**

**_September 30, 1514, Tower of London, London, England_ **

The Tower of London loomed almost menacingly, and Queen Catherine of England could not help but shiver at the thought of three famous prisoners; innocent casualties of the dreadful cousin war. Two little princes who had been locked away and eventually killed by their wicked uncle – King Richard III of England. Another little boy, aged ten, whose only crime was being the last legitimate male Plantagenet. If the rumors were true, her own parents were the reason behind his death, for they refused to send her to England if a rival to the Tudors still lived. 

Now Catherine and Edmund Tudor, Duke of Somerset, walked across Tower Green, where the condemned were executed. Once more, the queen shuddered at the remembrance of these innocents’ deaths. She glanced around: harquebusiers in Tudor livery patrolled the area, each bowing to the royal visitors as they passed. The afternoon was crisp and fresh; the sky was a gray-black sheet of iron above them, like the iron bars on the windows of the buildings inside the Tower. 

Today Catherine wore a black velvet dress with sleeves of cloth of gold, its bodies embroidered with diamonds, as well as a matching Iberian hood upon her head. A glittering jeweled cross dangled from her neck. As always, there was a confident and regal air about her. 

“Are you well, Your Majesty?” Edmund asked from beside her with concern.

The queen smiled at him, feeling a rush of affection for her young brother-in-law. He was such a good boy! Despite being only fifteen, he had no quarrel with Catherine being chosen as King Henry’s regent, offering his assistance without a flicker of resentment or guile. A tall, well-built, and lanky teenager, Edmund’s constitution was more like that of his late father than that of his ruling brother. His blue eyes were shy, gentle, and yet determined, as well as incredibly wise for his age. 

“I’m well, Your Grace,” Catherine assured. Why wouldn’t she be? Henry had successfully besieged Thérouanne, which was a sign that God had blessed their war against the French.

Yesterday, Queen Catherine had received news from France. King Henry of England and his ally, Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian, had emerged victorious from the so-called Battle of the Spurs. Henry and Maximilian had been besieging the town of Thérouanne in Artois for a few weeks. George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury and the English main general, had ordered to create a battery and dug mines towards the town’s walls, but there had been no progress for some time.

King François of France had been adamant to try and lift the siege. At first, a small French force had pushed through the Anglo-Imperial lines and delivered both gunpowder and supplies to the gates of the town, leaving more reinforcements. In a week or so, the French infantry had arrived at Thérouanne under the command of Louis d’Orléans, Duke de Longueville. They had soon been joined by the French cavalry and gendarmes under Jacques de La Palice and Pierre Terrail, Seigneur de Bayard, respectively. They had aimed to attack on the English besieging positions. 

As Henry had written in his letter to Catherine, the French had planned to create diversions so that some of their men could have brought more supplies to Thérouanne. Much to Henry’s pleasure, the French had made an assault at dawn aiming to catch his and Maximillian’s forces off guard, but the Tudor vigilant spies had spotted the movement of the enemy. The French had charged forward impetuously and stayed in an exposed position in an unprotected valley for too long. 

This strategic mistake of the Valois troops had allowed the English heavy cavalry to swiftly encircle them, while the archers had rained volleys of arrows upon the foe. As the Duke de Longueville had ordered their soldiers to retreat, the Tudor and Imperial men-at-arms together with the emperor’s heavy cavalry had charged with all their might, throwing them into disorder. La Palice’s light cavalry had crashed into the flank of the French infantry, and a complete chaos had escalated. 

The French gendarmes had abandoned their lances and even Valois standards in order to escape in panic. Encouraged by their success, the English headed by both Lord Shrewsbury and the Duke of Suffolk had chased after the adversaries for miles. They had succeeded in killing many French knights and capturing all the generals – Longueville, La Palice, and Bayard. _My Henry has tasted his first glory on the battlefield, having crushed our enemies,_ Catherine mused proudly. 

Edmund’s voice snapped her out of her reverie. “Your Majesty?” 

The queen let out a smile. “I’m fine; I was just thinking of Henry’s triumph.”

The queen and duke entered the prison compound. They halted at the sight of the Constable of the Tower – Sir Thomas Lovell. This gray-haired and wrinkled man, who was now in his late fifties, wore a doublet of black brocade and a flat cap. Years ago, Lovell had been created Chancellor of the Exchequer for life and appointed esquire of the body to the late King Henry VII with a pension. In 1512, Lovell had received his current position from Henry VIII who also favored him. 

Lovell bowed. “Good afternoon, Your Majesty and Your Highness.” 

Catherine began, “Sir Thomas, I’m given to understand that the prisoners have arrived. I trust that they are being housed well.” It would certainly not be good if their hostages could later claim to be mistreated by the English. She did not like the French, but England’s prestige was her priority. 

After bowing again, the knight replied, “They have been lodged in the finest apartments. They have every comfort and luxury they could hope for, Your Majesty.”

“Would they agree? A gilded cage is still a cage,” opined Edmund dryly, unimpressed with the blasé way the man had spoken. 

Thomas Lovell escorted them to the queen’s apartments. After he had left, Edmund approached a window and looked outside, lost in thoughts about the foreign prisoners. 

They must have been humiliated with their capture, for they were experienced warriors, save the Duke de Longueville. The Chevalier de Bayard was considered an epitome of chivalry. _They hope that their king will pay their ransom soon. Stories try to make war into a noble venture, but that is nonsense. If anything, war makes men into bloodthirsty dragons who only pretend to be heroes._

The Tower of London was not only a prison, but also a royal palace with luxurious apartments and a storehouse for weapons. It had first been constructed as a stronghold to strengthen Norman power in England after William the Conqueror’s coronation centuries ago. The queen’s apartments had a special meaning: English queens spent a night before their coronation here, and these rooms were splendidly tapestried with Flemish arrases, depicting the history of the English monarchy, and equipped with dark oak furniture in the antechamber, where Edmund and Catherine were now.

“You don’t like this, do you?” she questioned.

Edmund pivoted to her. In a clipped tone, he responded, “We broke the Treaty of Calais of 1504 with France. We have invaded a land my sister is the queen of, restarting the hostility of our ancestors just because Henry had a fit of piqué and dreams of glory. Of course, I detest this.”

“I meant that you don’t like war in general,” Catherine corrected with a sympathetic look. She continued as she strode over to him, “I know how you feel. The idea of so much bloodshed upsets–” 

He interrupted her with a surprising vehemence. “Your Majesty is a woman, so you are expected to dislike violence. I’m a man, and I should be reveling in it, but I don’t. I’m sorry.” 

“It is all right, Your Highness,” the queen allayed. “We are family, and we are now in private.”

 _If anyone else said that to me, even my Henry, I might have taken offense,_ Catherine speculated before placing her hand under Edmund’s chin, lifting his face to better see his eyes.

Her mind drifted to her Trastámara family. “Do you know who you remind me of? My brother, Juan. He was such a gentle soul, one who loved music and poetry. So different from my father who had won his first battle at twelve. No one thought any less of him for it.” 

“Henry would,” Edmund scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest with a scowl on his countenance which, ironically, made him look exactly like Henry whenever he was upset.

The queen emitted a sigh, dropping her hand to his shoulder and giving it a pat. "Henry thinks that all men should be like him. As much as I love my husband, I reckon that true strength does not come from might, but a good heart and a keen mind. In the ruthless world that we live in, purity and innocence are the true strengths. That is what I saw in my brother, and that is what I see in you.” 

A blithesome smile graced his visage. “Your words are like caresses of a breeze upon my face. Thank you, dearest sister.” He dropped the formalities to address her in a personal style.

“The strength of a person is not measured by the impact that all their hardships, responsibilities, and lessons in life have had on them. In reality, it is measured by the extent of their refusal to allow those hardships to dictate them what to do and who they become, and by the extent of how seriously they fulfill their duties. And you are a man of duty, Edmund.” 

“So are you, Catherine.” They spoke in this manner only in such private moments. 

Overcome by sisterly devotion and perhaps by a hint of motherly affection, Catherine embraced him. Edmund responded in kind, but they parted quickly as the guard outside opened the door and entered. The man notified that that prisoners were waiting to be admitted.

“Let them in,” Catherine commanded. She straightened her spine to look regal. 

The herald announced, “His Grace Louis the First d’Orléans, Duke de Longueville!” After a short pause, he declared, “Jacques the Second de Chabannes, Seigneur de La Palice, de Pacy, de Chauverothe, de Bort-le-Comte, and de Héron! Sir Pierre Terrail, Seigneur de Bayard!” 

The prisoners were introduced in French, which was the international diplomatic language.

Upon entering the chamber, the prisoners dropped into reluctant bows. After closing the door behind them, Sir Thomas Lowell stood a few respectful paces away from the Frenchmen.

The herald, who also entered with them, then introduced in a high voice, “Her Majesty Queen Catherine of Aragon, Queen of England, Ireland, and France–” 

Displeasure written all over his features, the Duke de Longueville pointed out in French, “I think you would not wish to insult Queen Elisabeth by referring to her sister-in-law by her title.” He was not going to talk with their enemies in English, although he knew it quite well.

His boldness caused everyone, even his own comrades, to gape at him in shock. 

Nonetheless, Longueville spat, “Unless of course, she would allow it.” There was a sharp edge to his tone as his eyes narrowed, leaving no question as to what he had alluded to. 

Catherine and Edmund regarded the French duke. Despite being a prisoner, Longueville was clad in attire of crimson velvet passmented with gold. The first thing Longueville had demanded upon their arrival in London was to be given garments befitting his high station of a duke and a cousin to the King of France. The color red set off Longueville’s fair complexion and wheat-colored hair.

Edmund’s eyes hardened, but he did not lose his temper, as it would have happened to Henry. The Duke of Somerset shifted his gaze to Catherine, silently asking for permission to handle this. As she nodded, he articulated in a calm, yet icy voice in excellent French, “Forgive us, Your Grace, we meant no disrespect to our beloved sister. It grieves us to be on opposite sides of the war, but alas it must be so.” Edmund’s scrutiny flicked to the herald. “Could you begin again?” 

The herald was quite embarrassed. “Of course, Your Grace.” 

“From the English titles,” Jacques suggested kindly.

“My Lords,” began the herald. “Her Majesty Queen Catherine of England, Ireland, and France. His Highness Prince Edmund, Duke of Somerset.” He looked relived either at not having to repeat all of Jacques’s titles or at that he was no longer in a middle of a disagreement. 

Catherine managed a smile as she affirmed evenly, “I welcome you, my lords, to England. I know that you are not here under the best of circumstances, but I swear to you on my honor that you shall be treated as favored guests until the day you are sent back to your home country.” 

The queen frowned at the sight of the unease and hostility in the prisoners’ eyes. _They do not trust me to keep my word because of the broken pact. They remember the captivities of their ancestors which could last for decades._ Worse it was clear from Longueville’s reaction that some people were suspecting Elisabeth Tudor – no, Elisabeth de Valois, Catherine corrected herself in her mind – of being complicit in her brother’s invasion plans.

For the first time since Henry had sailed away, Catherine wondered whether Edmund was right that this war would do nothing, but destroy the peace that the late King Henry had worked hard to establish. Although Catherine wanted to believe that her father and her husband were doing God’s will, she wished it did not have to come at the cost of so many lives. _Elisabeth disliked me when she was in England, and I failed to befriend her, but I’ve always wished her well. How is she doing now?_

“We thank you for hospitality, Your Majesty,” pronounced the Duke de Longueville, this time respectfully. Although his eyes were still tinged with mistrust, his words seemed earnest enough. 

Jacques de La Palice joined the conversation. “We are grateful, although none of us wants to spend a lot of time away from home, like it sometimes happened to our ancestors.” 

Longueville paled. “No, King François will not abandon us to our fates!” 

“I’m sure he will not,” uttered the Chevalier de Bayard in a neutral voice. 

Catherine and Edmund sighed and traded glances. Then they examined La Palice and Bayard, who both, they knew, were married to the English ladies who had settled down in France.

A muscled man of average height in his late thirties, Pierre Terrail, Seigneur de Bayard, had brunette hair and an olive complexion, which were set off by his plain doublet of beige velvet and matching hose. A man in his early forties, Jacques de La Palice had raven hair and intense gray eyes, which were now challenging Catherine, just as Longueville had done at the beginning of their meeting. Like Bayard, La Palace wore simple doublet and matching hose of black velvet. 

“Our wives are waiting for us,” La Palice remarked. He jested acridly, “However, I’m certain that their English relatives will not pay our ransom, for your king has made our countries foes again.” 

Longueville’s temper spiked once more. “There will be no another Hundred Years’ War! My cousin, François, will not let anyone annex even a small part of his kingdom.” 

Their tirades rubbed Catherine the wrong way. “My lords, let’s not discuss the past and instead focus on the present. If you need something for your comfort, let Sir Thomas Lovell know.” 

Edmund concealed his annoyance. “You shall be given everything you need.” 

“Thank you, Your Majesty and Your Highness,” said Bayard courteously. 

Although she did not like the outbursts of Longueville and La Palice, Catherine understood their feelings. The more she thought of her husband’s invasion of France, the more often she doubted it. When King Henry VII had been alive, he had once told Catherine that his main mission had been to establish peace within his realm and outside of it so that England was not involved in another long and futile conflict like the Hundred Years’ War. _Can we still hope that after all this, there will be a chance for peaceful relations?_ Catherine wondered, perhaps a tad optimistically.

ξξξξξ

On the same evening, Queen Catherine received an alarming message that caused her to order an emergency Privy Council session. Thankfully, all its members who had not gone to France with Henry stayed at Richmond Palace and arrived at the Tower within an hour. 

The chamber was hung with tapestries depicting the victory of King Henry VII at the Battle of Bosworth Field of 1485. This room was used for meetings of the highest peers of the realm when the court resided at the Tower. The Queen of England sat at the head of a long table piled with parchments and ledgers, along which Prince Edmund and several nobles were seated. 

“His Majesty, King James the Fourth of Scotland,” began Thomas Ruthall, the Secretary of State, “has decided to invade England.” This rotund, gray-haired man had been made Bishop of Durham in 1509 by Henry VII; his successor had confirmed his appointment.

“He dares break the Treaty of Perpetual Peace!” exclaimed the old Thomas Howard, the new Duke of Norfolk. While he was outraged with the Scottish monarch’s plans, he saw the opportunity to prove himself as a valuable courtier and a capable soldier in the monarch’s absence. 

The Duke of Norfolk veered his gaze to his elder son and heir – also Thomas Howard. At forty-one, Thomas the Younger was a muscled man of dark complexion and average height. Both the father and his son had an oval countenance, a long nose, and hazel eyes which watched others like a hawk. They were both dressed in black garments worked with threads of gold. In February 1514, the old Thomas had been created Duke of Norfolk, and his son had become the Earl of Surrey for life. 

Thomas Darcy, Baron Darcy of Darcy, scowled, glaring at the letter in Ruthall’s hands. “I’m not astonished at all. The Scots have always been an untrustworthy and disloyal lot. It should not come as a shock that they would break our treaty to side with the French,” he snarled. 

The Duke of Somerset sat forward with an almost bored expression, as if he were dealing with a tiresome toddler. “You are absolutely right, Lord Darcy. It is not surprising that the Scots have chosen to abide by the Auld Alliance, which was made over a hundred years ago and states that they must help each other against English aggression. Forgive me, but I was under the impression that we made a treaty with the French–” He trailed off when he caught Catherine’s warning look. 

The queen cleared her throat to make the room’s attention focused on herself. “Regardless of his reasoning, King James is still attacking England. I did not convene this council session to debate on his morals. We must prepare to defend ourselves from the Scots.” 

“How long do we have before he marches?” the Duke of Norfolk asked, his eyes darting about as he did some calculations in his mind. There was no doubt that the minute the meeting concluded he would be getting his own troops in order to march north so as to confront the Scots.

Catherine enlightened, “According to the letter from our ambassador to Scotland, we have a month. I’ve already sent a message to Lord Northumberland to warn him that he will have to lead his men on the border. Moreover, I’ve commanded Sir Thomas Lovell to raise an army in the midlands.” 

“If Your Majesty permits, I’ll start getting my soldiers ready,” Norfolk implored.

Another Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, commented, “Doubtless the Scots think we are weak when most of our army is gone. They will soon realize their error when we crush them.” 

“Gentlemen, it is our duty to protect England,” Catherine underscored. She stood up, her chair scraping against the stone floor. “Let us depart, for we have much to prepare for.”

The lords stood up and bowed. They exited with only the Duke of Somerset staying behind.

Throwing away his impenetrable mask, Edmund now looked discomfited. “I beg your pardon, sister. I hope I did not offend you, for I was merely pointing out the facts… erm… as I see them,” he justified himself, realizing that he had been too blunt before. 

Catherine heaved a sigh. “Don’t worry about me, Edmund. Henry would have reacted badly had you mentioned such things in his presence. He believes that we are justified.”

“Do you think so?” Edmund inquired curiously.

She told him softly, “Edmund, my father, my husband, and my sister’s father-in-law all wanted to attack France. I would never condemn their actions.” She then turned away.

The queen’s gaze fell on a tapestry portraying a victorious Henry VII at Bosworth Field. Would they be triumphant in France if even Portugal – a country that had once been like a sister to Spain – had allied with the House of Valois? _If the rumors are true, my dear nephew, Miguel, and his father do not share my thinking. It is scandalous that Portugal would turn against both Spain and England._ Right now, her emotions were a tangle of betrayal, ire, and confusion. 

However, Edmund persisted, “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but that is not what I asked you. Or perhaps I should reword it: do you think we should continue a campaign in France?”

The queen chewed her lip in thought, having the air of a woman choosing her words carefully. “No,” she admitted at last, shaking her head. “I think that we should not have broken our treaty especially when it is poor Elisabeth whose suffers the backlash of our actions.” 

“Henry believes she will take his side.” He then predicted wisely, “I think much like you are planning to do with the Scots: Liz will support the French and her husband, King François.” 

Catherine declared passionately, “We, queens, may not fight in battles, but if the circumstance demands it, we will die for the country we rule. Duty is in our royal blood, and the key to your nation’s peace and prosperity is accepting all challenges – once someone stops doing this, they become bad monarchs. I shall go north with the army, Edmund, and I want you to stay in London.” 

Her hand flew to her enlarged stomach as concern for her unborn child flooded her. At present, Catherine was five months along in her pregnancy, and she had already felt her baby move for the first time. _Should I risk the life of my babe and travel north? But I’ll only coordinate everything and inspire. The Duke of Norfolk and other lords will fight against the invaders._

The duke’s eyes widened. “Your Majesty! You are pregnant!” 

“I must do it, Your Highness. It is my duty to England and the House of Tudor.” 

They were again formal because of the seriousness of their conversation. 

Edmund proclaimed hotly, “I know I’m young, and not as war hungry as my brother. However, I’ll not hide in the castle like a coward, getting fat on fine food, lounging around, and reading while men fall on the battlefield. I’m a man, and in several years, I shall be knighted.” 

A bemused Catherine peered at him. She assumed an informal tone again as she explained, “Peace, sweet brother, peace, for that was not what I meant to imply. I merely think that London will need a regent while I’m away, and I wish for you to rule in my absence.”

A torrent of gratitude inundated Edmund. “I shall be honored, and I will not let you down.” 

She beamed at him. “You are young, but you have the mind and the wit of a seasoned diplomat. You just need to be less…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Less straightforward and even less honest about your opinion, for not everyone appreciates it, and least of all Henry.” 

“I will try,” he assured, chuckling self-deprecatingly.

Catherine grinned, her eyes getting a little misty as she reminisced about a time when another boy with the heart of a lover had promised to try, wanting to be a great ruler like their parents – the Catholic monarchs Isabel of Castile and Ferdinando de Aragón – only never to get a chance. _Oh Juan, forgive me. No one can replace you, but there are times when I look at Edmund, and think of how you two are so much alike in many ways. You two would have gotten along brilliantly. Perhaps you could have gotten Edmund out of his shell by teaching him that there is life outside of books._

The queen shook her head. There was much to do, and she could not waste her time dwelling on what could have been, and wishing that Emperor Maximilian, her father, and her husband had not invaded France. At present, she had her own fight to care of, and she would not fail England. 

In the next moment, the queen and her brother-in-law departed the chamber. 

* * *

**_October 8, 1514, Château de Blois, Blois, the Loire Valley, France_ **

The queen’s presence chamber was illuminated by stained-glass windows. The walls were swathed in Flemish tapestries with allegorical depictions of mythological figures. The Italian architect Domenico da Cortona, known as Boccador, and Queen Elisabeth of France stood leaning above a black marble table, where lay a large parchment depicting a new grand architectural project. 

“Does Your Majesty like my design?” asked Domenico da Cortona. Although he had lived in France for years, almost since the ascension of the late Charles VIII of France, his French was still accented. “This spiral staircase, covered with fine bas-relief sculptures and looking out onto the château’s central courtyard, will be the most spectacular feature of this new wing.” 

Queen Elisabeth inclined her head. “Yes, I love it, Monsieur da Cortona. My husband and I want this staircase to be a highly ornate structure. It will be called _François the First wing_.”

The artist flashed a smile. “I’m most pleased, then, Madonna Elisabeth. This part of the palace will incorporate a fusion of the Renaissance styles from Tuscany, Venice, and Milan.” 

The monarch’s wife perused him. Now in his mid-forties, Domenico da Cortona, known as Boccador, was a sturdy man of medium height, with black hair, an oval countenance, and eyebrows that would have fitted better a bigger forehead. His brown pools exuded creative energy. His eccentric attire of tawny damask, studded with gems, and his diamond girdle set off his swarthy complexion. _François is generous to our artists, for Boccador can afford expensive things,_ the queen mused. 

Bess commented, “We want to develop the castles and gardens at Blois and Amboise.” 

Boccador felt like a king of architectural knowledge in France. “I pledge to create at Blois something that will be an object of envy from other royal courts.” 

“Excellent, Monsieur. We shall build many wonderful Renaissance palaces.” 

The French ruler had shared with his consort his artistic plans and approved of her desire to patronize intellectuals. Jean Clouet was already a friend of both King François and Queen Elisabeth. Having finished the painting of the queen with her daughters, the portraitist was now working on the queen’s portrait. Elisabeth often communicated with the humanist Jacques Lefèvre d’Étaples.

The French court, together with many artists arriving there from Italy at the king’s invitation, had been Elisabeth’s home for four years. She had befriended most of her French ladies-in-waiting, although Marie de Montmorency, or the former Lady Mary Grey, remained her closest confidante. Nonetheless, once the news of the Anglo-Imperial invasion of France had broken out, the queen had encountered such indescribable hostility from the courtiers that she could scarcely bear it. 

Whenever Elisabeth met someone, they threw glances of suspicion at her. Only a month had elapsed since the departure of King François from court, and two weeks since Louise de Savoy had gone on a long “pilgrimage” to pray for France in the dark hours of need. _They all wonder whether I’ve conspired with my brother to have their beloved sovereign deposed and their country conquered by the English, hated by them. Damn you, Henry! What have you done to me, your own sister?_

The tidbits of the fall of the town of Thérouanne in Artois to the Anglo-Imperial invaders had fueled the ferocious hatred of the French towards the English and Emperor Maximilian. Sometimes, the queen caught glowers of such potent contempt being thrown her way that she felt as if they were penetrating her bones. She did not blame the French for this attitude, even though she felt it was unfair to blame her when it was her brother and her ancestors who had wronged them a lot. 

Boccador’s voice snapped the ruler’s consort out of her reveries. “By the time His Majesty returns with victory, we will already start building the new wing.” 

Bess discerned enthusiasm and greed in the man’s eyes. “Our sovereign is a generous man, isn’t he?” She paused, pleased to see him realize the implied message. “Our chief minister, Monsieur Charles d’Amboise, tempted Leonardo da Vinci with lucrative offers for years. This genius agreed to relocate to France, but he had to postpone it due to the invasion launched by _my dratted brother_.” 

Gasps of surprise came from two other people. They were Duke Charles d’Alençon, who was also Duke de Bourbon through his marriage to Suzanne de Bourbon, and his younger sister – Françoise d’Alençon. Charles was the monarch’s heir apparent in the absence of a legitimate son. As the Valois royal line was depleted of males, Charles had been prohibited from participating in war. 

Astonished with the news of Leonardo, Charles and Françoise then cast glances of compassion at the Queen of France. Unlike many others, they did not doubt that Elisabeth had not even suspected about her brother’s plans. While Françoise had grown up at court and long become the queen’s friend, Bess had also formed an affable relationship with Charles after his arrival. 

Françoise d’Alençon exclaimed, “Your Majesty, this is amazing! I’ve long admired Maestro da Vinci and his paintings! I hope that he will bring to France some of his masterpieces.” 

Her brother articulated, “Italian artists have thronged our court during Madame Louise’s regency. However, Leonardo da Vinci will definitely become a star in the intellectual circles.” 

The queen studied Boccador. “Maestro da Vinci possesses incredible talents in architecture, engineering, painting, sculpture, and other fields. He will undoubtedly aid you in your projects.” 

The architect comprehended that his patrons strove to create a healthy competition among their artists. “I respect Messer Leonardo profoundly, and working with him will be a huge honor.” 

Françoise opined, “I admire his _‘The Mona Lisa.’_ It is a masterpiece of masterpieces!”

Charles nodded. “I’m more curious about the Maestro’s anatomical drawings.” 

The brother and sister were seated on a blue-brocaded couch at the other side of the room. 

Elisabeth smiled at the prince, whose appearance differed from her husband’s. At twenty-five, Charles had a poetic handsomeness with gray eyes and ash blonde hair, now not covered by a cap. He preferred light colors: today he was clad in a doublet and hose of beige brocade slashed with blue silk. The Duke d’Alençon exuded light and benevolence, and he attracted many women at court. 

The queen’s scrutiny swung to the duke’s sister. Françoise d’Alençon was a nineteen-year-old beauty of average height and arrogant deportment. Her heart-shaped face was enlivened by inquisitive gray eyes, its beauty enhanced by aquiline nose and rosy mouth. The king had received several proposals for Françoise’s hand, but she remained betrothed to Henri d’Albert, the heir to the Navarrese throne. Her dress of golden brocade had the sleeves and bodies decorated with rubies.

Charles let out a laugh. “Is Your Majesty marveling at how different we look compared to my cousin, François? We inherited our pale complexion from our mother.” 

Françoise crossed herself. “The sainted Marguerite de Vaudémont.” 

The late René d’Alençon had three children: Charles, Françoise, and Anne, his elder daughter. Anne had married William IX Paleologos, Marquess of Montferrat, in 1508. 

Her brother’s brows knitted in a frown. “She preferred to become a nun rather than raise us.” 

Boccador busied himself with examining the design layout of the castle’s new wing. As the conversation moved to personal topics, the queen dismissed him. The architect bowed and left.

ξξξξξ

As they remained alone, Queen Elisabeth walked to the siblings. “Don’t argue.”

Françoise shook her head. “I adore my brother and was happy to be reunited with him.”

Charles sighed. “I must respect our mother’s decision to retire to a monastery in Mortagne.”

The queen seated herself onto a nearby couch. She understood the duke: she would never have joined a nunnery, leaving her daughters without motherly love. “You can visit her.”

“After the invasion is over, God help us,” Françoise assumed. Her beseeching gaze directed at the queen, she pleaded, “Your Majesty, will you ask our cousin François not to banish Charles again? I’ve missed him so much.” It was the first time she admitted her feelings. 

Charles clasped his sister’s hands in his. “Before his leaving, we reconciled with François.”

Françoise was beaming. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Bess emitted an apprehensive sigh. “While I resigned to having a loveless marriage, just as most royal unions are, I fear to imagine what our relationship will be like due to Henry’s sins.”

The Duke d’Alençon soothed, “François and you will be on friendly terms.”

Françoise speculated, “You would never have done anything to dethrone yourself and him.”

A halo of sadness enveloped the queen. “I’m afraid François views me as his enemy. He did not even come to me for a farewell meeting before his departure from Blois.”

A female voice spoke. “Of course, now François is wary of Your Majesty due to your English birth, and so are the nobles. None of us has forgotten the Hundred Years’ War.”

They veered their eyes to the door. They had been so engaged in the conversation that they had not noticed Anne de France’s arrival. Anne strutted over to them, her head held high.

Charles stood up and bowed to his cousin and mother-in-law. Françoise also rose to her feet and curtsied to the current regent of France; only Elisabeth remained seated.

His lips thinned as rage billowed through Charles. “Your Highness, I beg you to permit me to join my royal cousin in Artois. With all my heart, I wish to help him crush the invaders.”

Anne halted beside them. “Never, Charles. You are _the last male Valois_ , and if something, God forbid, happens to François, you will ascend to the throne. Your life is precious.”

Charles gushed, “I care not for the crown. My honor tells me to fight for my country.”

Françoise stressed, “Her Highness is right.”

This irked Elisabeth. “If my husband is killed, your daughter will become the Queen of France. Isn’t it a reason why you arranged Charles’ clandestine wedding to your daughter, Suzanne?”

“Your Majesty, please–” Françoise did not want a fight between Anne and Bess to break out. 

Charles divulged, “Your Majesty, I asked Princess Anne to let me marry Suzanne because I fell in love with her after we had met several times in the Duchy of Bourbon.”

Anne spoke in a steel voice. “Suzanne and Charles entreated me to help them marry in secret, knowing that François and Louise would never have consented to this match. However, I do not deny that I had my own motives: to keep the royal power within the Valois family if we lose another king, just as it happened in the 1490s when my brother, Charles the Eighth, and my cousin, Louis the Twelfth, both breathed their last, and when François’ father, Charles d’Angoulême, passed away.”

Françoise supplemented, “And when our father, René d’Alençon, died as well.”

Anne peered at the queen with impenetrable eyes. “It was a reasonable step, but I was motivated more by my daughter’s tears and pleas. When I explained everything to François and Louise, they finally understood it.” Her gaze flew to her son-in-law. “Nevertheless, if the worst comes to the worst,” she sucked in her breath, “I shall ensure that your marriage to Suzanne, Charles, will be annulled on the grounds of consanguity so that you can remarry and sire male heirs.”

“I love Suzanne wholeheartedly,” protested the duke.

The regent of France denied his wish. “My daughter has already had three failed pregnancies and one stillbirth. Unfortunately, she keeps losing your children, which weakens her health.”

Suzanne de Bourbon, Duchess de Bourbon and d’Alençon, was a lovely and petite girl with delicate features. Yet, she had always suffered from her fragile health, and she was also lame. Due to her defect, she preferred to live in seclusion in her duchy. Despite everything, Charles had fallen in love with her, entranced by her intelligence and her vulnerable beauty. Suzanne remained at Château de Chantelle in Bourbonnais to convalesce after her recent miscarriage. 

Françoise pitied her brother, but she concurred, “The Valois male line must be preserved.”

Elisabeth was a tangle of confusion and astonishment. Anne de Beaujeu was a wily woman – strong, pragmatic, haughty, and unemotional, her mind unreadable, while her will power was like that of her father – King Louis XI. Yet, now Elisabeth saw a motherly facet to her for the first time since the woman’s return to court. _I’ve known Anne de France for a few weeks. She was not present at my wedding to François. But what an unusual woman she is!_ To Bess, Anne was an enigma.

The regent addressed Elisabeth. “Can I borrow Your Majesty for a private discourse?” 

The queen climbed to her feet. “Of course, Your Highness.”

In grave silence, the two women exited the presence chamber into the hallway.

ξξξξξ

The day was lukewarm and cloudy, and the firmament was like a solid dome of gray stone. The garden was aflame with oranges, browns, and reds. Fallen leaves crackled beneath the feet of Queen Elisabeth and Princess Anne as they strolled between flowerbeds inside the vast, ornamental, formal garden. The late Gothic elegance of the castle’s architecture added to the place’s charm. 

The queen’s three ladies-in-waiting followed them; the princess was not accompanied by her maids. They were Marie de Montmorency, as well as the king’s illegitimate half-sisters – Jeanne and Souveraine d’Angoulême – daughters of Antoinette de Polignac, Dame de Combronde, and Jeanne Le Conte, respectively. These women had been mistresses of the late Count Charles d’Angoulême, the monarch’s father. Louise had invited Jeanne and Souveraine to court a few years ago.

Anne commenced, “François’ other half-sister, Madeleine, joined Fontevrault Abbey.” 

Elisabeth responded evenly, “Yes, my husband once visited Madeleine.” 

The regent continued, “It is excellent that you are on good terms the Alençons. I approve of your choice of your entourage: one lady married to the king’s best friend and members of his extended family. The aristocrats need to see that you are surrounded by the Valois.” 

A long silence ensued as they turned into an alley of birches and maples. 

At fifty-three, Anne de France, or Anne de Beaujeu, was a thin and tall woman with a stern face with wrinkles on her forehead, on her cheekbones, and under her eyes – they symbolized both age and knowledge. She was garbed in an ermine-trimmed cloak of black velvet ornamented with fleur-de-lis. _There is a lot of strength and intelligence in her whole appearance, and so much majesty,_ Elisabeth admired wordlessly. Anne’s imperial bearing compensated for her lack of beauty. 

This time, the queen interrupted the pause. “How can I help you, Madame de La Grande?” 

Anne smirked at the use of the nickname the nobility had given her during her regency for her late brother, Charles VIII. “Your Majesty is an intelligent woman, and you are trying to counter the downpour of hostility upon you since the invasion became public knowledge in France.” 

The ruler’s spouse halted near a line of beds, now barren of blossoms.

Bess’ mixed feelings towards the regent resurfaced. “What do I need to know?” 

Anne began respecting the young queen. “Louise spoke to you shortly before her departure. At the time, she could not disclose that King Henry of England would invade our realm. You cannot blame François for his secrecy given the bad blood between these two countries.” 

“I know that. The courtiers used to like me enough until the invasion.” 

“Your Majesty has to thank your brother for the crisis in your life and in France.” 

A bucket of despair splashed across the face of the king’s wife. “I swear on my eternal soul that I never knew about Henry’s vile plan to attack France with the Holy Roman Emperor and the King of Aragon. If I had suspected anything, I would have notified François immediately.” 

Anne studied the queen’s tormented visage. “I believe you, and so do our family.” 

Elisabeth glanced towards the lawn where a squirrel was searching for food, but finding none, as if symbolizing the hollowness in her soul. “I’m extremely worried about François, and in this war between our nations, which pains me immensely, I’m taking his side.” 

“My cousin has not written to you, has he?” Anne knew the answer in advance. 

“Why should he contact with his potentially treacherous wife?” Bess scoffed sardonically.

The regent refuted her conclusion. “I don’t think that our liege lord considers you a traitor. Yet, your brother’s actions planted the seeds of distrust and alarm in his heart.” 

Bess shifted her scrutiny to the regent. “What should I do, Your Highness?” 

Anne explained, “The French are wary of all foreign, save Italian things, and hate everything English. The roots of their loathing lie in the Hundred Years’ War when the kingdom of France and her people suffered unimaginable afflictions thanks to the ambitions of Edward the Third of England and his descendants. The shadows of the past will hang over France like fog for centuries.” 

“There was peace between England and France according to the Treaty of Calais of 1504.” 

Anne’s countenance darkened. “Until Henry of England broke it. The animosity between our nations will probably never be forgotten.” She sighed before narrating, “The Treaty of Troyes of 1420 disinherited Dauphin Charles and outlawed him, making King Henry the Sixth of England the regent and heir of the insane Charles the Sixth. This monarch is revered in the country of your birth, but he is utterly loathed and cursed here for his victory at the Battle of Agincourt of 1415.”

Elisabeth recalled, “My brother, Henry, has always admired this ruler.” 

The princess dipped a nod. “Henry the Sixth of England was a competent monarch, but only for England. He was clever enough to use the civil strife in our country to his advantage.” 

“The Burgundian-Armagnac war,” remembered the queen. 

“Indeed. In France, this monarch is notable for his slaughter of French soldiers who were not nobles after Agincourt, for long captivities in England of high-ranking aristocrats, and for the raids of his mercenaries into cities, towns, and villages. For his illegal and ruthless occupation of our lands.”

A chill slid down the queen’s spine. “It is horrible that the people suffered so much.” 

“It is our history.” Anne folded her arms across her chest. “Charles the Seventh, my blessed grandfather, dedicated his entire life to liberating France from English slavery, and it took him about thirty years to accomplish it, which earned him the sobriquet the Victorious.” 

“He is one of the French most competent and tragic kings,” stated Elisabeth. At Anne’s nod, she recalled, “Didn’t François’ grandfather – Count Jean d’Angoulême – spend years in captivity?” 

The regent dipped her head. “About thirty-two years in England. Count Jean returned in 1449 and married young Marguerite de Rohan. François’ father – Count Charles d’Angoulême – was born when Jean was sixty. He must have been in a good health to remain virile at this age.” 

A cloud of sorrow blanketed Elisabeth. “Everyone remembers these horrors.” 

“They are unforgettable.” Anne’s gaze flew to the maids who awaited them at a distance. Then it wandered back to the queen. “Isabeau of Bavaria! She is despised by the French. She was a whore and spendrift, and because of her, the Valois dynasty nearly lost the crown due to the Treaty of Troyes. Since then, the French kings did not marry foreigners until your wedding to François.” 

The realization dawned on the queen like the epiphany. “They fear I might be another Isabeau. François often reminds me that I’m a Valois, not a Tudor, and that I must be loyal only to him.” 

A flood of empathy swarmed Anne. “It is not your fault, but you cannot change the past. Your mission is to emerge victorious from the battle with Isabeau of Bavaria’s shadow.” 

Bess gaped at her. “But how to attain it, Madame?” 

The regent ruminated, “It will be difficult, especially after the fall of Thérouanne. The French army is now stationed near Tournai, and judging by François’ letters, he has been growing exceedingly depressed. Gaston de Foix is still battling against Ferdinando de Aragón in Navarre.” 

The two women and the queen’s maids resumed walking. They arrived at the southern part of the garden, featuring a pond at the center, embellished here and there with square parterres of nearby lawns. Then they dived into a network of perpendicular avenues with secondary ponds.

Anne halted, and so did the queen. The maids followed suit, staying at a distance. 

The princess’ eyes bore into the queen’s, as if looking deep into Bess’ soul. “Let me ask Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, to escort you to Artois with a squad of guards. Take Madame de Montmorency and the king’s half-sisters, as well as the Duke de Vendôme’s wife with you – your friend, Eleonora Gonzaga. Travel to the royal camp and let François and his soldiers see you with his relatives in gowns sewn in Valois colors. You need to make them all see that you are a Valois who will not allow anyone to dethrone our sovereign, even if the aggressor is your own brother.” 

The queen found this idea appealing. “I’ll go to him! I don’t want them to doubt me!”

A smile curved Anne’s lips. “Spend time with François and don’t chastise him for not saying goodbye to you, or for his many mistresses. He lives in a camp, but the royal tent must be comfortable enough to stay there. You will spend many nights with your own philandering husband without any woman standing between you and him. You will have enough time to conceive.” 

A blush suffered the cheeks of Elisabeth, whose hands flew to her abdomen. “My womb has been the source of my infinite frustration. I yearn to do my duty to France and produce a male heir.” 

“François loves your daughters, but he needs a legitimate son. Yet, he knows that it is God’s will who a woman has. Your husband inherited his fiery amorous temperament from his late father. Charles and I had a feud after his riot against my and Pierre’s regency, but I grew to adore François.” 

“His father was never faithful, and François will never be either.”

“Count Charles d’Angoulême was a cultured and educated man, but his son is more artistic and sublime. There is more depth in François, and he is highly likely to surprise you over time.” 

“I just need to have a son and to make François trust me.” 

Again somber and unattainable, Anne gestured towards the chapel, which they saw from the park. “At this castle, Jeanne d’Arc was blessed in 1429 before setting off to defeat the English at Orléans, which was the turning point in the Hundred Years War. Let’s go to a chapel.”

The queen and regent headed to the Saint-Calais Chapel, the queen’s handmaidens trailing after them like a storm cloud in their wake. Cardinal Antoine Duprat, whom they found inside, conducted a Mass for the two royals and then performed a benediction over Anne and Elisabeth. 

* * *

**_October 12, 1514, Anglo-Imperial military camp, near the town of Thérouanne, Artois, France_ **

The morning was cold, but windless and unusually bright for this time of year, as the sun shone in the cloudless, yet gray, autumn sky. It was like something out of an incredible painting: a king and an emperor, standing together in front of their victorious army. Maximilian, Holy Roman Emperor, and King Henry VIII of England stood together in the center of their large camp, blessed by God as they made their way through France, defeating all those who stood in their way.

The warriors cheered them as if they were some legendary generals from ancient Rome. 

“Long live King Henry of England!” promulgated Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. 

Thomas Wolsey cried, “Our liege lord is a victorious lion!” Truth be told, he was torn apart by doubts over the invasion of France, for one success did not guarantee the country’s conquest. 

“Our great King Henry!” exclaimed George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury and Lord Steward of the Royal Household. He was responsible for the fall of Thérouanne. 

Suffolk flattered, “Our liege lord is more heroic than Henry the Fifth of England!” 

The Tudor ruler stepped aside from Maximilian and pontificated, “My comrades! Over a week ago, we took the town of Thérouanne and captured several French prisoners, among them the Duke de Longueville, who is a cousin to that Valois usurper.” He stilled for a moment as the knights roared in approval. “Quite soon we will march on Tournai, where the faux King of France is now camped. Remember how the French cowards ran away from us after they had lost what we rightly call the Battle of the Spurs because of the haste of their troops to leave the battlefield.”

“It was a nice pursuit as we chased after them,” continued Shrewsbury. 

A round of exuberant exclamations from the English soldiers followed. 

The English monarch averred, “When we confront the French cravens at Tournai, they will run away from us. Imagine how that libertine François the First, as they call him, will be afraid when we approach him! Perhaps they will already retreat by the time we reach Tournai.” 

“Out of fear,” interjected Emperor Maximilian in thickly accented English. 

“All the French are cowards!” shouted the Duke of Suffolk, and the others echoed. 

“I would not be certain of this,” Maximilian objected as he stroked his protruding jaw. “They might retreat for tactical reasons, but they must be formulating some new plan.” 

Henry laughed off the other man’s concerns. “We shall win! Always!” 

“Another Agincourt, Your Majesty!” Henry Bourchier, Earl of Essex, interposed. 

“Of course,” Henry stated matter-of-factly. “I’m the rightful King of France.” 

A squad of German knights appeared. The Flemish, German, and Austrian men, who were all part of the Imperial troops, did not mix with the English in the camp and lived separately. 

One of the German generals hollered in his native tongue, “Long live the legendary Emperor Maximilian! May the mighty House of Habsburg rule the whole of Europe!” 

All the Imperial soldiers echoed and dropped into deep bows. 

For some time, the Tudor monarch watched Maximilian being greeted in the same ebullient and reverent manner as, he imagined, only the illustrious Gaius Julius Caesar had received from his centurions. A twinge of envy passed through Henry at the thought that he was less mighty than the Holy Roman Emperor. Yet, after the conquest of France, things would change! Henry had also sent his troops to northern Spain, which had joined Ferdinando de Aragón in his attack on Navarre. 

It was said that the late Holy Roman Emperor Frederick had been warned of imminent danger in a dream by Saint Maximilian of Tebessa, which led to him naming his son and successor so. _His father named his son aptly, for he is a great monarch. I shall follow in his footsteps. Perhaps once I become the King of France, I should call myself emperor,_ Henry ruminated silently as he grudgingly listened to the honors paid by the Imperial warriors to their master. 

Maximilian von Hapsburg was fifty-five years old; the only true signs of his age were his gray hair and wrinkles on his cheekbones and upon his forehead. He was still a tall, athletic, and impressive man who wore a golden overcoat with a wide-brimmed, black velvet hat. His mouth seemed small with his protruding chin and nose being rather large. The emperor had an air of Caesarean majesty about him, which partly compensated for his lack of handsome regular features.

The King of England hoped that he did not look less powerful and probably even foolish next to such an imposing man. Henry was clad in a splendid red fur-trimmed cloak over his doublet, having opted to wear his crown of diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, wanting to be as regal as possible. Even Maximilian did not have any crown upon his head while they were in the camp!

The fighting was done for now. After the Battle of the Spurs, the joint armies had needed a short time to count the money they had gotten when their soldiers had pillaged Thérouanne. Then the monarchs had thrown feasts for their generals in the camp. The wheeled trebuchets and mangonels still stood in front of the town, ready to be moved to their next target. As it happened every day, the pikes and spears were being cleaned by the servants, while the men cleaned their own weapons.

At last, Maximilian and Henry walked towards the English ruler’s tent. Guards shadowed them from behind. They halted near the tent, above which the Tudor standard floated in the air.

King Henry inquired, “We have the finest army in the land, do we not, Your Imperial Majesty? They proved their courage and strength during the Battle of the Spurs.” 

Maximilian quipped, “Well, the French might disagree, but I suppose that ants would disagree that a boot is a formidable enemy until they have been stomped upon.” 

This elicited a roll of laughter from the guards close enough to hear them. 

“Very true.” Henry did not understand that his optimism was misplaced. 

The emperor’s expression evolved into seriousness. “Make no mistake. This was only the first battle. We have many more to come, and King François will fight to keep his land from us.” 

Henry could not help but slander his Valois rival. “The so-called King François is a child hiding behind his mother’s skirts. He has left the realm under the rule of a mere woman, Princess Anne, and we shall soon take the capital of France. Then we shall subjugate the entire kingdom.”

This prediction caused cheers from the Englishmen.

“Let us cross that bridge when we get there. The Almighty will not appreciate us being too cocky,” Maximilian pointed out, a thinly veiled rebuke in his voice. 

His English counterpart had the decency to look abashed. “My blood is hot, and I yearn for what is rightfully mine,” he supplied, wanting to make a good impression on the emperor.

“Yours?” Maximilian questioned, a sardonic eyebrow raised, as though he were speaking to a pugnacious child. “What of your sister’s children? Do they not get a claim to France?” 

Henry scowled at the mention of Elisabeth, and something akin to guilt flickered across his countenance for a fraction of a second. “My sister has only three daughters, no legitimate sons at all. Therefore, François has no male heirs. Even if he did, France still rightfully belongs to the Tudors. Something the Pope even agrees with.” 

The emperor eyed his English counterpart. Henry was overconfident and overbearing, and his obsessive desire to subjugate the Valois realm clouded his judgment. _Pope Julius would never say that. He might secretly assure you that he will crown you King of France if we win, but he would be offering the same to François if your situations were switched,_ Maximilian noted inwardly. 

The monarchs entered the English royal tent. The spacious tent was furnished with crimson-brocaded couches, as well as oak armchairs and a marble desk, where a lot of parchments and inks lay. A bed, canopied with a copious amount of yellow silk, was in the corner. Henry motioned for Maximilian to follow him as he crossed to a table with decanters and goblets.

Henry poured out two goblets and handed one of them to the older man.

Maximilian raised a goblet to his lips. “I would like to propose a toast to our alliance. May we reap our just rewards and accomplish feats during this campaign!” 

“Let’s drink to that,” Henry replied, clinking their cups before taking a hearty sip. “I must say I wish that King Ferdinando had been with us. It would be wonderful to have all three of Europe’s most Catholic monarchs together as we stand against our common adversary.”

Had the Holy Roman Emperor not had an ounce of decorum, he might have snorted. Instead, he grimaced. “He is unfortunately dealing with matters closer to home. I’ve received news from King Ferdinando: Portugal is helping Navarra by attacking the Spanish borders, forcing Ferdinando to divide his army. Gaston, Duke de Nemours, keeps him preoccupied in Navarra.”

Henry made a disapproving, tutting noise. “I’m truly shocked with Portugal’s betrayal. They used to be a loyal ally to both Castile and Aragon and by extension to England. Not to mention their family ties to both of us. How they could turn against so, I shall never know.”

“Speaking of family ties,” started Maximilian. “My grandson and I were most displeased that we have none with England.” He hinted at the new Duke of Suffolk. 

Every time the emperor saw Charles Brandon his blood boiled with fury. His Habsburg ego and pride were wounded _. One of the reasons why I left Charles at home is that he was so angry at being snubbed for a nobody, I was afraid that he might cause an incident if he was in the same place with that upstart._ Maximilian could not wrap his head around the vagaries of Princess Mary Tudor. 

The King of England acknowledged, “I’m quite disappointed with my sister’s actions. When my darling Catherine has a son, we shall rectify her mistake with another marriage agreement.” 

“A grand idea.” The emperor’s eyes glinted with delight. “I pray that I’ll live to see that and our victory against France.” Suddenly, an inexplicable presentiment slithered down his spine.

“To our victory,” Henry toasted as he emptied his goblet.

“To our victory,” Maximilian concurred as they again clinked their goblets and then took a long drink of wine. More toasts followed, and then Henry ordered to serve some snacks for them.

* * *

**_October 21, 1514, French military camp, near the city of Tournai, Artois, France_ **

The Valois camp was located outside the walls of Tournai, which had once been a town near the crossroads of a Roman road. The afternoon was rather cold, and black clouds threatened heavy rain, setting the grim mood among the soldiers who were crestfallen because of Thérouanne’s fall. 

The ruler of France and Baron Anne de Montmorency walked through the camp. Many tents were scattered around them, and warriors, now all unarmed, were seated around campfires, stretching their limbs out towards the flames to warm themselves up. At the sight of François and Montmorency, who was widely respected, they hailed them as heroes; they revered their monarch. 

François and Montmorency strode forward, with the king’s several men from the Scots guard trailing after them. They stopped near five ballistaes: these giant crossbows were designed to shoot large, wooden darts with an iron tip along a flat trajectory at a target. Next to them stood more than ten trebuchets, which were probably the most powerful among existing catapults. 

The Scots guard stood at a respectful distance from their liege lord and his subject. 

The monarch growled, “Damn those English and Habsburg foes to the deepest pits of hell! They pillaged Thérouanne and then demolished its walls, depriving countless people of their homes.” 

Montmorency was chagrined by their recent military setback. “I’m very sorry for our failure to defend Thérouanne. My honor is tainted, my conscience is burdened.” 

“It is not your fault, Monty. It was our huge mistake to send my cousin – Louis, Duke de Longueville – at the head of the infantry to counter the enemy near Thérouanne. However, I fail to understand why battle-hardened warriors made strategic mistakes – I mean Jacques de La Palice and Pierre Terrail, Seigneur de Bayard, who commanded our cavalry and gendarmes, respectively.” 

“Now they are all in English captivity. What will happen to them, Your Majesty?” 

The ruler lifted his scrutiny to the firmament where gray clouds scudded like malign, ghostly galleons. “I pray that the stormy sky is not a sign of our further misfortunes.” He emitted a sigh. “I hope that we will expel the enemies from Artois and will not allow them to advance to the heart of France, not even to northern Picardy. And once it is over, I’ll ransom the captives.” 

Jacques de La Palice had entered the service of King Charles VIII of France years ago and participated in Charles VIII’s invasion of Italy, where he had distinguished himself. Known as _‘the knight without fear and beyond reproach,’_ Pierre Terrail, Seigneur de Bayard, had also successfully served the late monarch in the Italian expedition. In contrast, the Duke de Longueville had received his military appointment only thanks to his high-born status and his kinship with François. 

Montmorency asserted, “Spending some time in English captivity will make them ponder their tactical mistakes near Thérouanne. They failed our country and Your Majesty.” 

The king thought of his other friend in Navarre. “My cousin, Gaston de Foix, told me that every mistake should be analyzed in order to be later turned into a victory.”

Montmorency nodded in agreement. “Let’s pray that Monsieur de Foix will quickly respond to our urgent message, but he has been quite preoccupied in Navarre. I’ve almost devised the plan of trapping the invaders in Artois, but I would not risk implementing it without his approval.” 

François patted the other man upon the shoulder. “Gaston is younger and less experienced in military affairs than La Palice and Bayard, but his mind is brilliant. He has staunch faith in you and me, and he has always praised your brilliant martial genius that will one day gleam like a sun.” 

Again feeling guilty, Montmorency snarled, “Not yet, my liege.”

The ruler balled his fists. “We shall stop them at any cost.” 

Several knights approached them and bowed; they were quickly gone. 

Montmorency noted, “La Palice and Bayard are married to your queen’s English ladies.” 

Over two years ago, Jacques de La Palice had wed Lady Elisabeth Somerset after his first wife’s death. Pierre Terrail had fallen in love with Lady Joan Bourchier and asked Queen Elisabeth for her hand in marriage. The King and Queen of France had acted as witnesses on their weddings. 

François remarked, “Just as you are, my friend.” 

A smile broke through the austerity of Montmorency’s face. “I miss my wife.” 

“So, it was the right decision to arrange your marriage, Monty, wasn’t it?” 

Montmorency, who was reticent by nature, confirmed, “Yes.” 

A handful of moments later, Philippe de Chabot appeared. He flourished a bow and informed, “Your Majesty, we have guests: Queen Elisabeth and her ladies-in-waiting.” 

Amazement and disbelief painted the countenances of François and Montmorency.

“What? My queen is here?” A sense of incredulity encompassed the monarch. 

Montmorency’s heart hammered in delight. “Your Majesty, let’s go greet them.” 

ξξξξξ

As they walked, everybody bowed to the ruler. Anger and suspicion vying in him, François and Montmorency followed Chabot, who led them to the queen. As they reached the royal tent in the center of the camp, the picture in front of them was the most impressive one. The soldiers, who had before sat around the campfires, had all stood up and stared in awe at the newcomers. 

Queen Elisabeth of France stood surrounded by her five ladies-in-waiting. She was flanked by the ruler’s half-sisters – Jeanne and Souveraine d’Angoulême. Baroness Marie de Montmorency and Eleonora Gonzaga, Duchess de Vendôme, were behind their mistress. Eleanora’s husband and the king’s cousin – Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, was talking with Charles d’Amboise. 

Amboise apprised, “His Majesty is coming!” 

At the sight of King François, Elisabeth sank into a deep, graceful curtsey. Her maids lowered themselves into curtseys. The Duke de Vendôme and the others dropped into bows. 

“Rise, everyone,” permitted the monarch in a high voice, his gaze glued to his wife. 

Elisabeth straightened to her full height. “Good afternoon, husband.” 

The ruler halted, avoiding coming close to his consort, and the distance between them signified the emotional estrangement betwixt them due to the invasion. The king’s gaze traversed his wife: a diamond tiara adorning her head, Elisabeth was accoutered in a splendid gown of white and blue brocade, dotted with Valois coat-of-arms and golden fleur-de-lis, as well as trimmed with ermine on the sleeves and the bodice. Although it was cold, the queen and her maids did not wear cloaks. 

Two amber pools, turbulent with emotion, locked with a pair of composed, pale green orbs. At first, exhilaration overmastered François, for his spouse’s eyes always bewitched him, as if she had cast a spell over him, making him dream of drowning in their depths. Then an amalgamation of suspicion and fury at her and all the English superseded these feelings, and chilliness entered his gaze. _Bess is clothed in Valois colors to impress me and my army, which is a very clever move._

His gaze veered to his wife’s handmaidens. Each of them was garbed in outfits of white, blue, and golden velvet embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lis. Unlike the queen, they had elaborate hoods studded with precious stones on their heads, and their outfits were not trimmed with fur.

“Wife, why are you here?” inquired the monarch, not stepping forward to her. 

The queen promulgated, “I’ve come to you, my lord and husband. Your cause is my cause! France is my country, and my allegiance to the House of Valois is unwavering. The invaders must be crushed, the Almighty help you and your armies! You will win because the Lord is on your side.” 

At Bess’ signal, her ladies stepped aside, each of them with a tiny smile playing in the corners of their lips. They all liked the spectacle that Anne de France had devised to perfection. 

Elisabeth twirled around as she affirmed ebulliently, “Anyone can deal with victory. Yet, only the mighty can bear defeat, and the French are strong. _Our_ heroic nation won the Hundred Years’ War, and _we_ are capable of defending _our_ glorious country and her magnificent historical heritage. No foreign feet should be allowed to set foot on French soil unless they come in peace.” 

Marie de Montmorency cried, “For the victory of the French over the invaders!” 

“Our king will win with God’s help!” chorused Jeanne and Souveraine d’Angoulême. 

Eleonora Gonzaga, Duchess de Vendôme, spoke in her accented French. “After our triumph, the Renaissance culture will blossom in the Valois realm life like the most gorgeous flower.” 

The assemblage of soldiers was so inspired that they exploded, “For France!” 

“We shall crush those English and Imperial mongrels!” 

“We once ejected them from our lands, and we shall do it again!” 

“We will not give them conquer even Artois!” 

“For independent France!” Philippe de Chabot shouted. “For the House of Valois!” 

The Duke de Vendôme neared his wife. Taking Eleanora’s hand in his, Charles proclaimed, “For King François, our only rightful sovereign, and for his wellbeing!” 

Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, was a prince of the blood, or _a_ _prince du sang._ Despite his friendship with François, he had not been appointed in the army, having been instructed to ensure the security of the royal court in the king’s absence. A year ago, the ruler had arranged for Vendôme a prestigious marriage to Eleonora Gonzaga, who was a daughter of Francesco II Gonzaga, Marquess of Mantua, and Isabella d’Este, and the couple had fallen in love soon after their wedding.

“Long live King François!” hollered Charles d’Amboise. 

Montmorency, who stood behind François, stared at his wife who was grinning at him. “For King François and Queen Elisabeth! Long live our majestic king and queen!” 

“Long live King François and Queen Elisabeth!” the soldiers echoed. 

The King of France was rooted to the spot, his scrutiny still riveted to his consort. Her head held high, her bearing regal, Elisabeth held his gaze unflinchingly: she deciphered a barely concealed tumult of conflicting emotions in the amber pools, which were nonetheless colder than winter frost. _Despite his less than affable welcome, I’m relieved to see my husband unharmed!_ She admired François’ muscled and tall frame clad in a plain doublet of brown brocade and matching trunk hose. 

As the monarch waved his head, the congregation swiftly quieted down. 

“Your Grace de Vendôme!” François beckoned the man to him. “Cousin.” 

Vendôme hastened to his liege lord and sketched a bow. “Your Majesty, God bless you!” 

The king commented with annoyance, “You left Blois against my orders.” 

Feigning an apologetic expression, Vendôme answered, “These were the queen and regent’s orders, my liege.” Like others, he approved of Anne de France’s idea. “I’ve delivered Her Majesty in safety. My brother, François, will keep your court in order together with Princess Anne.” 

Marie de Luxembourg, Countess de Vendôme, had departed on a long “pilgrimage” with Louise de Savoy, for she was Louise’s closest confidante. The Duke de Vendôme was Marie’s eldest son. Françoise de Bourbon, Count de Saint Pol and de Chaumont, was her second son. 

“Thank you, Charles.” François waved a dismissive hand, and his cousin returned to his wife. 

The knights resumed cheering their sovereign and queen. At last, François stepped forward and reached his wife, then took her hand and kissed it, his lips barely brushing her skin. 

“We shall speak a little later,” uttered François, his gaze flicking to his half-sisters. 

Offended by his lack of attention, Bess murmured, “As Your Majesty wishes.” 

A smile spread across the ruler’s visage. “Jeanne! Souveraine!” 

“Your majestic Majesty!” purred the two women in unison. Although they had arrived at court only several years ago, they adored their royal half-brother, regretting that they had not grown up with him. They were grateful to Louise and François for arranging good marriages for them. 

A slender twenty-four-year-old woman of average height, Jeanne possessed the Valois dark attractiveness: the long Valois nose, amber eyes a shade darker than the ruler’s, and brunette hair. At twenty, Souveraine was tall and thin, her light complexion, which she had inherited from her mother, accented by low, black brows and black hair arranged in a chignon. Jeanne and Souveraine were both close with the king who favored them highly, while also being the queen’s allies. 

François approached his sisters and kissed their hands in turns. “Brother in private.”

“Brother,” drawled Jeanne and Souveraine d’Angoulême with pleasure. 

The king sent them a smile, and then veered his eyes to his spouse. “Let’s go.” 

Anne de Montmorency promised, “Your Majesty, I shall take care of our guests. They will be lodged comfortably in separate tents.” Save his wife, Marie, whose presence gladdened him.

Nodding, the monarch extended a hand to his consort. He led Bess to his tent, above which the Valois standard floated in the air. Sentinels, guarding the king’s tent, flourished bows. 

ξξξξξ

The Valois couple entered the royal spacious tent. As François went to an ebony desk piled with maps and parchments in silence, Elisabeth examined her surroundings. It was finished with golden-tapestried couches, as well as bronze-brocaded armchairs, two of which stood by the small hearth, where a fire cracked. A thick, azure, Aubusson carpet flowed throughout the area.

“Go sit by the fire,” the king said evenly. “You must be cold.” 

She crossed to an armchair and eased herself into it. “It is a relief to be here.” 

“Was your trip uneventful?” François was now sitting at his desk. 

“It was smooth. We journeyed from Blois to Artois incognito, without the Valois standard.” 

He took his mother’s latest letter in his hands. “Did the thought that this voyage might be perilous for you ever cross your mind? The province is full of English and Imperial agents who could have captured you. Or were you not afraid for some other reason?” 

His sarcasm discomforted the queen, and she bristled inwardly. However, she spoke calmly, remembering the wise words of both Louise and Anne. “I understand what you are implying.” 

The monarch broke the seal. “And what is it?” 

Elisabeth stretched her hands out to the fire. The heat felt so good, but it did not seep into her body, perhaps because of her spouse’s frosty demeanor. “You do not trust me.” 

“How can I?” the ruler asked in the voice of a philosopher doubting some fundamental dogma. “Your brother broke our treaty of peace and is now trying to subjugate _my_ realm.” 

“It is _our_ realm,” she amended. “I’m married to you if you have not forgotten it.” 

François put the letter on the table. “I’ve always remembered who you are – my queen and an English princess. One of the reasons why I distanced myself from you is that I no longer know which role you perform. I also wanted to leave you out of the mess that Henry of England started.”

“And because you strove to test me,” surmised Elisabeth. “To see what I will do.” 

There was a ghost of a smile on his face. “I’ve never doubted your astuteness, Bess.” 

“François,” she called, her voice as gentle as the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings. “Do you really believe that I would have conspired against the House of Valois and _our_ country?” 

The king’s emotions alternated between suspicion, desolation, terror, and hope. During these years, part of him had feared that he had married another Isabeau of Bavaria because of her English roots. Yet, François was charmed by Bess and desired her every time he saw her slender form. 

For a split second, François locked his gaze with Elisabeth’s, which conveyed all her chasmal despair. A tide of guilt swallowed him: he had never intended to hurt his consort, and although he did not love her, his respect for Bess due to her intelligence, forbearance, kindness, and endurance of his infidelities was immense. The ruler was grateful for her quiet acceptance of him with his strengths and weaknesses. Most of all, François adored Elisabeth for her profound interest in the arts and for her aspirations to cultivate the principles and ideas of the Renaissance in France. 

The only frustration in their matrimony was the absence of a legitimate male heir. However, the monarch had never blamed his wife for giving him daughters, for it was God’s will. He had masked his dismay on the day of their third daughter’s birth, but she had noticed it in his eyes. It was not disappointment with his queen as a person and woman, but a feeling of regret that he still did not have a son, and that the Valois male line was still in danger of extinction. 

Then François had learned about the Anglo-Imperial invasion of the realm. For a long time, he had wondered whether Elisabeth knew about Henry’s planned aggression. Now Elisabeth was looking at him with tearful, pale green eyes like faded emeralds. He yearned to console her, but stopped himself. _I cannot fall for an English woman. King Charles the Sixth of France loved Isabeau at the beginning of his reign, before demons of insanity took possession of him. I cannot risk so much._

His consort’s voice intruded upon his musings. “François! When you married me, you said that I must become a Valois. You have told me many times that I must be loyal only to you, and I’ve complied. I swear that I did not know anything about my brother’s villainous intentions.” 

As he kept staring at her in silence, Elisabeth continued, “Henry is delusional: France is not his – it belongs to you and your male descendants. I received several letters from Henry in the summer, but they contained only congratulations on the birth of our little Yolande.” 

“Didn’t your other brother, Edmund, inform you about anything?” 

She rejoiced to hear his softer tone. “No. Henry must have had his letters to me checked.” 

François tipped his head. “Edmund cannot anger His belligerent Tudor Majesty.” 

“Something along these lines.” Bess was relieved when his shoulders sagged in relief. 

“The trick with your clothes in Valois colors is effective and had an impact on my men.” 

“I’m glad.” Her hand slithered down her bosom in an unintentionally enticing gesture.

Feeling a stirring in his loins, the monarch averted his scrutiny. He unfolded Louise’s letter. Having scanned it, he revealed, “My mother is worried about me because she received the tidbits of the fall of Thérouanne. I must write to her that I did not participate in the foolish charges of La Palice, Bayard, and Longueville.” Louise was also concerned about Charles d’Amboise. 

“How is Madame Louise? In which monastery or abbey is she now?” 

The king smiled: his wife and others really believed in his mother’s “pilgrimage,” so their secret was well guarded. “In Normandy.” He then penned a note for Louise. 

As he finished and put the quill on the table, the queen pronounced, “You have compelling reasons to loathe the English for what they did to your dynasty and country. Perhaps you always hated England, and now this abhorrence has resurfaced due to my brother’s actions.” 

“There are things we, the French, will never forget.” His voice was tinged with bitterness. 

“Henry has betrayed me, but I’ve not betrayed you and our family like Isabeau of Bavaria.” 

"That demoness caused immeasurable harm to my ancestors and France.” 

“Not all foreigners are traitors.” Tears trickled down the queen’s cheeks. 

“Forgive me,” François murmured with contrition. “It is all so difficult for me.” 

Elisabeth brushed away the tears. “Since our wedding, there has been certain emotional distance and a lack of trust between us, and now I comprehend why you feel so.” 

“So, you arrived in Tournai to prove your allegiance,” he inferred. 

“Not only to you, but also to France. Many aristocrats doubt my fealty, especially now.” 

His lips curved in a mischievous grin. “You have accomplished a lot today, Bess. My nobles and soldiers will remember your remarkable appearance – you have inspired them.” 

François and Elisabeth got to their feet synchronically. As their gazes intersected, waves of sensual gravitation rippled across the whole universe that constituted only the two of them in these moments. Without any mistress standing between them and distracting the king from his consort. 

“You are a model queen, Elisabeth,” he lauded as he enveloped her into his arms.

His nearness was intoxicating. As he towered over her like a giant, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed her husband on the mouth. “I’m not Isabeau – you must believe me.” 

“Definitely not: that harpy was a blonde, while you are a siren with flaming hair.” 

François tightened his arms around her and then read aloud one of his poems. 

_Look at me with your eyes of pale green color,_

_And know that I will follow you with silver_

_Of my kisses, so lift me as a light wind lifts a swallow,_

_Let our flight to paradise be in sun or windy rain._

_I often imagine you calling me again and again,_

_Hold me on your heart as the sea holds the foam,_

_Take me far away to the hills that hide our home,_

_Peace shall reign because your eyes are green._

Hunger for his touch flared up in her. “I don’t want your usual gentleness, François.” 

“Really?” His amber eyes darkened with desire. “How should I take you?” 

“Utterly, completely, without restraints,” his wife whispered hoarsely. 

The monarch’s mouth crushed into hers. Kissing most ardently, they backed away to a large bed canopied with copious masses of bronze and black silk in the corner. Elisabeth settled herself on the bed’s edge, her hand finding the laces of his hose. After helping her undo it, François pushed her skirts up and then sheathed himself inside her with one hard stroke. 

The queen groaned, enjoying the long, deep slide of his flesh claiming hers. They devoured each other’s lips as François drove into her as if to mark his queen as his forever, as though his very life depended on her. After achieving a celestial fulfillment, their garments were thrown away, and their nude forms engaged in a lascivious combat on the bed as they performed twists and turns, arms embracing, lips caressing and teasing, tongues murmuring like a couple of doves. 

_Holy Father, I beseech you to help me conceive a son,_ Elisabeth prayed as she climbed atop of François. _Let me win his trust…_ She rocked her hips into him as he moved frantically with her until he flipped Bess over and pinned her to the mattress. As their danced the insanely spirited amatory tarantella, the ruler’s feverish kisses matched hers, primal and urgent, dragging them deeper into a lake of primeval enjoyment until a rainbow of colors flashed in their brains as they climaxed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers and friends! We hope you are safe and cheerful in these difficult days!
> 
> Catherine of Aragon is left to rule England as regent during Henry’s absence in France. We hope that you like Catherine and Edmund who have a very close relationship, even if they disagree on some matters. Catherine is a woman of duty, one who is loyal to her Spanish family and to her husband and England, but it does not mean that she is entirely blind. As she confesses to Edmund, she doubts that the invasion of France was a good idea, but she has to support her spouse. Henry is now in Thérouanne together with Emperor Maximilian; facts about the emperor are correct. 
> 
> The French prisoners who are featured in the first scene were indeed taken captive after the Battle of the Spurs of 1513, and the description of the battle is correct. But in our AU this battle happened in 1514; the invasion will continue and end in the next chapter. Their names, titles, and descriptions are historically correct. We decided to have two of them – Chevalier de Bayard and Jacques de La Palice – be married to Elisabeth’s English ladies who remained in France. 
> 
> Elisabeth, François’ wife, remained at court at Blois. The François I wing in the Renaissance style is going to be built soon. Elisabeth befriended Charles d’Alençon. Françoise d’Alençon became her close friend a while ago. We have insight into the marriage of Charles d’Alençon and Suzanne de Bourbon, which was arranged by Anne de France, or Anne de Beaujeu, to keep power and lands within the family, and because Charles and Suzanne fell in love. Charles and Suzanne don’t have children, for Suzanne had reproductive issues in history, and all her children died.
> 
> It is understandable why the French courtiers look at Elisabeth with suspicion. Elisabeth is becoming close with Anne de France who opens her eyes to some important truths and offers her a way to prove her loyalty to France. Anne’s words about the Hundred Years’ War and Isabeau of Bavaria are historically correct, so the French were indeed afraid to marry foreigners for a long time, which resulted in the end of the senior Valois line in 1498 with the death of Charles VIII of France, much thanks to the inbreeding in many previous generations. 
> 
> Elisabeth did exactly as Anne recommended and went to Artois to Tournai where François is now camped. We hope you like the scenes in the French camp and her meeting with François, as well as their frank conversation. The spouses are not in love yet, but they have deep respect and attraction to each other. Maybe they will soon have a son. The romantic poem François read to Elisabeth was written by us; François indeed wrote many poems in history. In the next chapter, there will be battles, including one in Artois, one in Portugal/Castile, and one in Navarre. 
> 
> The facts about Charles IV de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, are historically accurate. But as we have Françoise d’Alençon betrothed to young Henri d’Albert, an heir apparent to the throne of Navarre, the Duke de Vendôme has another wife – Eleonora Gonzaga, an Italian Renaissance woman. The information about François’ illegitimate half-sisters is correct. 
> 
> Many thanks to our friend who provided invaluable assistance in editing the story.
> 
> Yours sincerely,  
> VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance


	8. Chapter 7: The Duels of Those in Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catherine of Aragon deals with the Scottish invasion, and Queen Elisabeth of France acts decisively. The important battles happen in Navarre and Artois, France.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lady Perseverance is back from the hospital, but it will take her some more time to completely recover, for there are some complications. Please, all of you, be very careful. She had a serious form of covid, it still has some side effects; the virus has a different impact on everyone. Be careful and stay sane!

**Chapter 7:** **The Duels of Those in Power**

_**November 1, 1514, Flodden Field, outside Braxton, Northumberland.** _

Queen Catherine of England, the once princess of Aragon, stood in the afternoon sun, her golden armor sparkling when the rays hit the steel. Her horse, draped in red and green silk embroidered with Tudor roses, paced back and forth, allowing its mistress to observe the army in front of her.

She smiled upon seeing the banners she had ordered, ones bearing the coat-of-arms of Castile, Aragon, and England, a reminder of how she and Henry had bound these countries together. St John’s Eagle held the Spanish badges depicting the castles of León and Castile, the arms of Aragon, and the pomegranate of Granada. A dragon and a crowned lion clutched the Tudor coat-of-arms in their claws. 

The pleased regent of England veered her gaze back to the brave men. _It must be strange for them to see a woman in armor. Do they think I’ll fight beside them? That is a tempting perspective, for I long to help drive them out of my country even if it meant dying. A queen loves her people like a mother would,_ Catherine ruminated. A hubbub of the knights’ voices reminded her of her plans. 

Quickly, Catherine spurred on the beast and moved to the hill. From there, she could see the rear of the English army. About twenty-six thousand men occupied a large field that stretched in front of the queen’s eyes like a still green carpet over the dusky skin of the earth. Beyond the field, there was a forest, where the crones of trees were changing color to browns and oranges. 

Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, steered his destrier to the queen. “Your Majesty! The idea to perform the maneuver of our troops westwards with the goal to reach Branxton Hill, lying less than two miles north of James’ camp at Flodden, was a very effective one.” 

Catherine nodded; the visor of her helmet was lifted. “That was an excellent tactic to ensure that our enemy would change his position, leaving Flodden Edge to the south of Branxton.”

He sighed. “Their previous position was immensely strong.” 

She answered in the smartest way he had ever seen a woman speak, “At the Flodden Edge, the Scottish flanks were protected by marshes on one side and steep slopes on the other. James constructed fortifications on the hill, so we needed a distracting maneuver. Once Your Grace of Norfolk led our troops from Wooler Haugh across the River Till, James started moving his armies.”

“King James went to Branxton Hill. This is a commanding position, which, he thinks, will still give his pike formations the advantage of a downhill attack. Our vanguard approached Branxton village, unaware of the new Scottish position, but the Scottish king declined to attack.”

Catherine tipped her head. “Yes, the code of chivalry demands it. I heard that he reportedly said, _‘I’m determined to have them all in front of me on one plain field and see what all of them can do against me.’_ If it is so, then James is an extremely overconfident man.”

“Indeed, he is, Your Majesty. During this maneuver, the Scottish numbers plummeted from the original forty-two thousand soldiers because of sickness and desertion. However, they still have about thirty-four thousand men and outnumber us by roughly either thousand.” 

The queen regarded the assemblage before them. “I believe in English courageous hearts.”

Queen Catherine rode further forward to face the Tudor army. Her expression determined, she began, “Good soldiers of England! Today is a sad day, for our Scottish brother has chosen to break the Treaty of Perpetual Peace of 1502, and to side against the wishes of the Pope, attacking England. King James the Forth must believe that I’m a weak woman who will quiver at the sight of him and beg for mercy, as though England is nothing more than an ant hill to be crushed by his boot.”

“King James is a fool, then. He will not take us,” came a jeer that was echoed by the crowd.

The queen beamed at them. “No, he will not. Now I see brave men who will send the Scottish running like deer run from the hounds. If need be, I would fight beside you, lay down my life for England, for you, my comrades, and for your families. You are like the chivalrous and fierce knights of the time of crusades to Outremer, and you will drive away dishonorable invaders who think that we are defenseless.” She made the sigh of a cross in the air. “God bless you all!”

“The Lord bless the good Queen Catherine!” the army roared back, banging their pikes onto the ground as a salute. “God bless King Henry and the Tudor dynasty!” 

They continued to cheer as the warrior queen made her way down from the hill, pausing to exchange a few words with the Duke of Norfolk. Behind the duke, there were his two sons – Thomas Howard, his heir and the Lord High Admiral of England, as well as Lord Edmund Howard, his third son. Their armor was decorated with a vast number of small metallic circles and the Howard heraldry. 

“Your Majesty,” said the Duke of Norfolk. Once more, he greeted his mistress with a nod of his head, unable to properly bow while riding. “Everything is ready.”

Young Thomas Howard pointed out, “We have ferocious and accurate guns, as well as a large contingent of well-trained archers armed with the English longbow.”

Edmund Howard snickered. “We all remember what our archers accomplished in France.” 

Nodding, Catherine enjoined, “My lords, if King James dies in battle, I want his body to be sent to my Henry to France.” As the old duke’s eyes widened in shock, she continued brusquely, “This man has been excommunicated, and instead of making amends, he continues to shame his wife and my sister-in-law, Queen Margaret of Scotland, by attacking her homeland. Thus, he does not deserve the reward of a burial.” She winced as she spoke, fully aware of the hypocrisy of her statement. 

They all gaped at the queen, for this was not the order they had expected to receive.

Yet, the English queen could not help but remember her conversations with Prince Edmund. _Edmund, your voice has become my conscience. You are not here, but I can feel your judgmental stare. You would ask me how I would feel if the King of France had decided to do the same to my husband. Even if Henry were excommunicated, I would not wish his remains to be mistreated._ As she envisaged Henry’s mutilated corpse, tears came close to spilling over, but she blinked them back. 

“Perhaps that is too harsh,” Catherine corrected, ignoring the relieved look on their faces. “Bring his coat to me instead, and I’ll send it to our sovereign so that he may use it as a banner.” 

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” the duke told her. “I shall see you when the battle is over.”

“God protect you, my lord,” responded Catherine.

Queen Catherine urged her mount forward and galloped towards the camp. The wind blew into her face, and she closed her eyes to shield them from the cold drops, for it was drizzling again.

ξξξξξ

Once she entered the English camp, two grooms arrived to help the queen off the horse, and then they took the animal away to be fed and watered. Catherine barely took a few steps towards her ladies-in-waiting when a jolt of pain speared through her abdomen. 

“Your Majesty, are you well?” Maria de Salinas quizzed, concern marring her features as her friend bent over. She instructed, “Someone, fetch a physician! Urgently!”

Maria aided her queen to walk to her tent, above which the standards of Tudor and Trastámara families floated in the air. The drizzle ceased, and almost miraculously, the sun came out, but not to Catherine’s joy. In the distance, they heard a thunder of guns as the battle started with an artillery duel. The queen prayed that James’ big guns would not perform as well as he might hope. 

Everything seemed to pass in a blur. Catherine could not say whether it was multiple women who or only Maria who removed her plates of armor, then tearing away the layers of her clothing until she was in a white silk undergown and undergarments. Catherine had no clue how much time passed between her hasty undressing and Doctor Linacre’s arrival. Nor did she know how long she lay upon a simple cot as the physician tried to keep her child from slipping out of her womb far too early.

Unbearable pangs of torment shot through the queen. It felt as though it had only been a minute ago that she had entered the Tudor camp, anticipating to send to her husband a letter of English victory after the battle. The next, she was resting on bloodstained sheets, staring at the unmoving, small – too small to live – babe in the doctor’s hands, barely listening to his apologies. The torturous sensations in her stomach subsided, but the shadows of mortality and grief shrouded her whole being. 

“What was it?” Catherine questioned, although, in her heart she already guessed the answer.

“A male foetus, Your Majesty,” Doctor Linacre replied, his tone colored with dolor.

“You may go,” permitted Maria, seeing that her mistress needed solitude.

Bowing, Linacre muttered, “Accept my most sincere condolences.” Then he was gone.

Catherine shut her eyes, endeavoring to trap the tears behind her eyelids, and she covered her mouth with a shaking hand to smother a sob. Time seemed to lose all meaning as the queen lay there, her eyes watery. Those speaking to her, even her beloved Maria, transformed into background noise for her troubled mind. Queens did not wallow in despair, but right now, she did not feel like a queen. 

Only one thought churned in the queen’s head. _I’ve failed again. Another boy lost. Why, Holy Father? Am I cursed? Have I displeased the Lord in an unforgiveable way?_ Catherine bemoaned wordlessly. Mortal dread seized her, like a tight fist closing its hand around her lungs: what would her husband, her dear Henry, say about her new failure? Would Henry blame her for the tragedy? 

The queen did not know for how long she rested so – motionless, barely perceiving the reality, and defeated by nature, or perhaps by her own folly, for Edmund had warned her against riding to the north with the army. Suddenly, the sounds of people shouting managed to penetrate Catherine’s hazy mind, rousing her from the bleakness where she was drowning in. Slowly, very slowly, she raised her head and blinked blearily, as though she had woken up from some strange dream.

Her scrutiny shifted to Joan Vaux, Lady Guilford – a woman in her early fifties, her countenance unusually smooth for her age and her outfit of dark satin plain. Catherine recalled that Joan Vaux had once been a lady-in-waiting and protégée of Lady Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, and this woman had little sympathy to the queen, always remaining loyal to the late Margaret. Yet, it mattered not now: Joan and Maria, both discomforted and uneasy, were conversing quietly.

“What is happening?” Catherine inquired in a tremulous voice.

Her question caught her handmaidens by surprise. They turned to her and curtsied. 

“Several hours have passed,” commenced Maria as she neared her mistress’ cot. “It is already late afternoon. Scotland has been defeated, and King James is dead.” Her smile did not reach her eyes, for the celebratory mood from the victory was tempered by the death of the Tudor male heir. 

“Your Majesty can be proud of yourself,” Joan asserted. 

In grave silence, Catherine felt sick as she eyed at the blood on the sheets, remembering her command to Norfolk before the battle had begun. _Was this the reason for my punishment? King James was excommunicated, but he did not lose God’s love because the Almighty loves all His children regardless. Or perhaps it was a life for a life, wasn’t it? My sister-in-law’s husband for my babe._ Waves of despair mingled with odd contrition were crashing down onto her from all directions.

The queen found the strength to pronounce, “Lady Guilford, go tell His Grace of Norfolk to send their deceased liege lord’s coat to Scotland with our sincere condolences.” Catherine then finally rose from the cot, her hands gripping onto the edges not to stumble. 

Joan bobbed a curtsey. “Of course, Madame.” Then she exited.

A worried Maria advised, “Your Majesty needs to lie down.”

Catherine shook her head. “No, I am fine, Maria. I must see the Scottish monarch’s body.” 

Maria had assisted her mistress in dressing into a gown of black brocade, for the queen was now in mourning for her baby. Then Catherine swept out of the tent, accompanied by Maria and her two other maids. On the way to the battlefield, her inner voice kept repeating in her head: _‘A life for life. I pray that it will not be a king for a king’_. Although she appeared outwardly calm and regal, Catherine was internally reeling from today’s events, and there was no gladness in her soul. 

* * *

**_November 5, 1514, the city of Pamplona, the kingdom of Navarre_ **

“For France!” cried Gaston de Foix, Duke de Nemours and Constable of France. He impaled one opponent and then bisected the stomach of another. “For the House of Valois!”

The battle in the vicinity of Pamplona raged for hours. Bows cracked, arrows whizzed through the air. The sun was setting beneath the mountains, for Pamplona was surrounded by the Pyrenees. It tinged the sky with a dusky orange and crimson, like the color of rivers of blood which soaked the ground in a rounded valley, where the city was located in the middle of Navarre.

The twenty-six thousands of the French and Navarrese soldiers had collided with the twenty-five thousands of Spaniards. The invaders in the Pyrenean kingdom were led by King Ferdinando II de Aragón himself. The Valois troops were commanded by Gaston de Foix. Queen Catherine and King Jean II of Navarre waited in the military camp, pitched the left bank of the Arga River.

“For Navarre!” shouted Gaston as he stabbed someone. “For the House of Albert.”

Gaston blocked and parried. He was encircled by his bodyguards, all effective at slaying those who attempted to harm their master. The clang of steel upon steel was deafening, and the pitiful cries of the wounded and dying were drowned out by the rattle of artillery fire from both sides.

“Fire! Now!” shrilled Odet de Foix, Viscount de Lautrec, who was responsible for the Valois artillery. “Fire! Kill them!” Five years older than Nemours, he was Gaston’s paternal cousin. 

One of Gaston’s guards warned, “Behind you, Monsieur de Nemours!”

Gaston turned to the right and ducked in time to evade a blow that could have been a fatal one. “I need my destrier!” He had lost his horse in the melee after having been unhorsed.

The Constable of France and his men attacked Spanish knights who launched an assault on them. Thomas de Foix de Lescun, Gaston’s other cousin, flung himself into the thickest of the fighting mass searching for his general’s destrier that could have already been dead. Coincidentally, the beast stood riderless a few feet away from the battlefield, near the city’s walls.

Swinging his sword as the foes approached him, Lescun pressed his way through the crowd. As he neared his cousin, he informed, “Your Grace de Nemours! Here!”

Within a minute, Gaston set astride his black destrier, caparisoned in blue, golden, and white colors. Young Claude d’Annebault, one of Gaston’s personal guards, rode to him and held the shield above Gaston’s head. Annebault winced slightly when arrows and rocks hit the shield.

Gaston twirled around on his beast, his silver armor shining in the last rays of sun. He slit the throat of a charging rival, and the man’s corpse fell from the horse. The battle had begun with a fierce attack of the two cavalries, with Gaston having bravely led his men.

Upon his orders, Gaston was given Valois standard. He raised it above him in his left hand, with the sword clasped in his right one. “None of you will annex any part of France or Navarre!”

The French artillery fired again with an awesome accuracy, and the Spanish canon fire answered with equal ferocity. Gaston’s universe was tinctured in the sanguinary cloud of bloodlust as he finished off more and more enemies. Just behind him a man fell after he had slashed his stomach. _How long will it continue? Ferdinando de Aragón is serious that we will fight perhaps to death,_ Gaston ruminated. 

“Our infantry! Ahead!” enjoined Charles de Bourbon, Count de Montpensier, de Clermont, and d’Auvergne. “Move from the east and smash their lines as if they were insects!” 

Everywhere war cries became screams of death. Finally, the French gained the upper hand as Montpensier’s infantry clashed with the Spanish rearguard, their morions gleaming slightly as the shadows of the evening were rapidly descending. Gaston’s plan was to have the Valois infantry attack the enemy back lines and catch them off guard, and by doing so, cause them to lose their discipline.

Someone’s familiar cry in Spanish followed, “Regroup now! Hold the line!”

Gaston recognized this voice: it was the Aragonese monarch himself. Anger boiling in his veins, the Constable of France steered his beast towards the sound. “Let’s find him!”

“Your Grace!” appealed Thomas de Lescun. “Don’t risk your life, I beg of you!”

Claude d’Annebault no longer could hold the shield over his master. “Your Grace! Don’t!”

Nevertheless, a furious Gaston was slowly making his way towards a tall warrior clad in white armor, which was made in plain steel and decorated with flutings. As soon as he saw the Castilian and Aragonese heraldic signs on the knight’s morion, Gaston’s doubts dissipated – this man was his worst enemy. Ferdinando was surrounded by his guards; there was no standard-bearer nearby.

Before the Treaty of Blois of 1506, Ferdinando had attacked Navarre, and it was the sixteen-year-old Gaston de Foix whose few divisions had stopped the invasion. Gaston had been in Gascony with his men and marched on Navarre upon receiving the tidbits of the invasion. His unexpected victory had earned Gaston great esteem from the French nobility. In four years, he had been admitted to the Regency Council by Louise de Savoy and been made Constable of France at his young age.

 _France and I gave my sister, Germaine, to that Aragonese devil,_ Gaston snarled silently. _I did not want her to marry that fox, but we needed peace with Castile and Aragon. And where did it lead us?_ In several years, Ferdinando had invaded Navarre again. Gaston hated the ruler of Aragon with every fiber of his being for taking his sister away from him, blaming Ferdinando for the lack of letters from Germaine, and for the vile monarch’s attempts to destroy his homeland and Navarre.

“Your Grace, be careful!” Lescun beseeched. “Your life is precious to us!”

Lescun followed his cousin on his feet, his weapon destroying everyone who stood in his way. Annebault was more fortunate and rode on his hose, the shield clasped in his left hand and his sword in the right one. Other guards, some mounted and some not, trailed after them. 

ξξξξξ

Gaston was getting closer to Ferdinando de Aragón, who noticed him. Indeed, it would have been impossible not to recognize the Constable of France who in 1506 had charged on the Spaniards with his several divisions with Valois standard lifted in his hand. Gaston defeated Ferdinando at the Battle of Ujué to the northeast of Olite, the Navarrese seat of power. This time, Ferdinando had brought twice more men to Navarre and also allied with England and Emperor Maximillian.

Ferdinando de Aragón based his invasion on the claim that his second wife, Germaine de Foix, had to Navarre as a daughter of Jean de Foix, Viscount de Narbonne and Marie d’Orléans, the late King Louis XII’s sister. As a son of Queen Eleanor of Navarre, Jean de Foix had once contested for the Navarrese crown with Queen Catherine of Navarre, but Germaine and Gaston’s father had failed.

Gaston heard Ferdinando’s words as he was climbing the hill where his adversary was. “I shall fight with him. Nemours will pay for what he did to me. I’m tired of his games.”

One of the foreign generals implored, “Your Majesty, don’t do this! He is a hothead!”

“And an excellent swordsman,” someone else added.

“I shall!” Ferdinando unsheathed his sword. “That craven must be put into his place.”

Gaston tightened the reins sharply and paused, then pivoted on his destrier and handed the Valois standard to Annebault. He needed two hands to fight against Ferdinando who, Gaston saw, drew his poniard and held it in his left hand. Gaston followed suit, filling both of his hands with weapons.

They commenced a duel, their beasts dancing around each other. The hill, from where Ferdinando had watched the battle, was not overcrowded. Below, countless corpses littered the valley, and the odor of blood filled the cool air, while the French were slaughtering their already tired enemies.

“My comrades!” Gaston addressed in a high voice while deflecting a blow. “Kill them!”

Ferdinando lunged at his foe before glowering in accented French, “Damn you, Foix boy!”

Annebault, Lescun, and Gaston’s guards were involved in the battle with Ferdinando’s men. 

His destrier neighing, Gaston hissed, “If I’m a boy, you are an old man losing your sanity.”

“How dare you?” said Ferdinando. “You are a piece of dirt. Just as all the French are.”

The Constable of France dodged a diagonal blow. “The Spaniards are made from the immoral dirt – the most dishonorable and horrible nation because you are their liege lord.”

The King of Aragon’s eyes flashed. “The French are all cowards and worms.”

“Just as the Spaniards are,” retorted Gaston. His poniard clashed with his rival’s similar weapon; their swords collided as well. “It is such a pity that my sister is your spouse.”

“Germaine has been a good wife,” Ferdinando praised. “Save her failure to give me an heir.”

Gaston’s blades deflected many blows. “She birthed your son, Juan.”

The ruler sighed. “My son was too sickly and died. She didn’t give me another.”

At this, Gaston howled with fury. “Don’t insult my sister! Maybe your old age has deprived you of virility. Now I know why she does not write to me – you must have prohibited her.”

An arrow flew past him, and Ferdinando ducked, then aptly aimed at his adversary’s chest – yet, Gaston avoided it. “You are mistaken, boy. Germaine now understands the true nature of the French: you are a lewd, eccentric nation without brains. She despises her home country.” 

“You are lying.” Gaston exerted a huge force with his next blow. “You are duplicitous.”

Ferdinando tittered. “The French complain that I’ve deceived you when I invaded Navarre despite our peace treaty. You lie, fools. I’ve deceived you ten times and more.” 

“What else have you done?” Nemours roared as he stabbed forward. “Part of your armies are fighting in Castile because the Portuguese are now your enemies. Who deceived whom, then?”

The ruler sniggered. “Indeed, now I have fever men in Navarre. But haven’t I kept you occupied in Navarre for more than a month? That is enough for Henry Tudor to destroy François.”

The French had outwitted the Spaniards by allying with Portugal. When over a month ago the Portuguese troops had attacked the Castilian border with Portugal, Ferdinando de Aragón had sent half of his soldiers to defend Castile. Nonetheless, the English forces under Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset, had arrived in northern Spain and then joined Ferdinando’s troops in Navarre.

 _Marguerite,_ Gaston whispered. _How is she now in Portugal? The wife of Prince Miguel, the future King of Portugal and perhaps of Naples..._ As he swung his sword time and time again, the pain from the loss of his beloved resurfaced like blood to a wound after the scab was pulled off. Five years ago, Gaston and Marguerite had enjoyed their secret romance until Louise de Savoy had stopped them. Gaston and Margot had even begged Louise to let them marry, but it was not meant to be.

“It will not happen!” Gaston prayed that the message he had sent to Artois would be delivered in time. The battle plan Montmorency had formulated was a good one.

“Your Grace!” Lescun bellowed as a Spanish warrior could have decapitated Gaston.

Gaston turned away, stabbing his attacker in the heart; Lescun killed another man. Annebault and Gaston’s guards were engaged in a combat. Battle cries mingled with prayers and supplications of the wounded, who entreated those who encountered them in the fight to spare their lives.

Using his rival’s distraction, Ferdinando knocked the sword out of Gaston’s hand. He directed his poniard to the right and nearly caught Gaston on the right wrist, but Annebault charged forward on his stallion. The collision of the two beasts resulted in the unhorsing of both Gaston and Annebault. Lescun and other French soldiers roared in horror. The daylight was rapidly growing dim.

“His Grace de Nemours!” a despairing Lescun roared. “Protect him!”

Ferdinando hopped off his horse and rushed to Gaston who lay on the ground. The fall from his destrier was so painful that Gaston’s vision was blurry. Yet, as the King of Aragon lunged at him, Gaston scrambled away. They rolled over the ground like snakes intertwined. Suddenly, Ferdinando was atop of Gaston, for despite being older than him, the Aragonese ruler was heavier and taller.

Ferdinando aimed a knife at Gaston’s face. “Beg my pardon, you miscreant.”

Gaston glared into Ferdinando’s eyes. “Germaine will not forgive you for murdering me.”

“Damn you!” This was true, so Ferdinando hesitated.

All at once, the Count de Montpensier towered over them. He kicked Ferdinando with his boots, causing the monarch of Aragon to moan and tumble to the ground next to Gaston.

“It is over,” stated Charles de Bourbon. “Your men are defeated and dying.”

“No.” An exhausted Ferdinando staggered to his feet with effort and put a dagger to Gaston’s throat. “Then you shall pay, boy. Germaine does not need to know.”

However, Montpensier stood behind Ferdinando, pressing his sword to the monarch’s neck. “Am I a boy too, Your Majesty?” he asked in accented Spanish. “You have lost today.”

Gaston rose to his feet. “Let him go. I shall not take his death on my conscience.”

Gaston and Montpensier rejoiced that they would probably capture Ferdinando, but too early. A band of ten Spaniards sprinted towards them with the goal to distract them from their liege lord. While the French dealt with them, King Ferdinando II de Aragón was able to escape with his most trusted men. Among them there was the Marquess of Dorset and a few surviving English soldiers.

ξξξξξ

Darkness enveloped the French and Navarrese military camp, and a full moon hung above the Arga River, flooding the area with silvery light. The Navarrese royal guards lit torches as they awaited Gaston de Foix with his victorious troops. Many tents were prepared in advance to house the injured.

At last, the French appeared. Lescun and Annebault assisted Gaston in dismounting and flanked him as they trudged towards the royals. Montpensier and Lautrec trailed after them.

Queen Catherine and King Jean were shaken by the sight of a usually ebullient and confident Gaston. Still encumbered in his armor, Gaston did not wear his helmet, looking pale and dazed.

The Queen of Navarre raced forward. “Gaston! Cousin! What is wrong with you?”

The Navarrese monarch walked behind his wife. Everyone bowed. 

Lescun explained, “His Grace de Nemours had a contest with Ferdinando de Aragón.”

“A risky confrontation,” grouched Annebault, his eyes glued to his master.

Gaston de Foix assumed a cocky demeanor, but his pallor deepened. “I strove to teach a lesson to that Aragonese blackguard. I have political and personal scores with him.”

Catherine chided, “My dear Gaston, you should not have risked yourself.”

“What a Spanish demon,” the Count de Montpensier labelled the run-away monarch.

Lautrec added, “The Spaniards were defeated after all the skirmishes in the past weeks.”

Gaston’s countenance transformed into animosity. “I would want to have him imprisoned.”

Catherine gathered her cousin into her arms. As they parted, she lifted her hand to his face in a gesture of friendly affection. “Gaston, it matters not. The invaders are retreating, as your messenger told us. You have saved us again, and you deserve to be called _the Thunderbolt of Navarre_.”

Gaston smiled. “I pray that all is well with King François.”

Catherine and Jean crossed themselves before uttering, “The Lord will protect him.”

Jean eyed Gaston with concern. “Your Grace de Nemours, you ought to rest.”

A splitting headache passed through Gaston’s skull. “The fall from the horse could have split my helmet in two halves, but I’m grateful, Claude, for thanks to you I did not lose my hand.”

A mortified Annebault pledged, “Forgive me, Your Grace. I failed to come up with another plan when I noticed King Ferdinando targeting your wrist. All happened too quickly.”

“Claude, you rescued me.” Gaston then swiveled to the Count de Montpensier. “I owe my life to you as well, Monsieur de Montpensier. You precluded Ferdinando from running me through. The plan we both devised to have our infantry crash into their rearguard was very effective.”

Montpensier’s expression was modest. Yet, deep down he hoped that his actions in Navarre would help him gain access to the inner circle of King François. He envied that his cousin – Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme – had been elevated to a duke while he remained a count. _Nemours, Montmorency, and our sovereign’s friends are in too a high royal favor,_ fretted Montpensier. 

Montpensier answered, “Your Grace is alive. Now you need to take care of yourself.”

Catherine encouraged, “Go to your tent, cousin.”

Nodding at the queen with a smile, the Duke de Nemours prodded towards his tent. Annebault and Lescun departed with him, while the Viscount de Lautrec went to fetch a physician.

In half an hour, Catherine and Jean of Navarre stood near the gathering of soldiers who had returned to the camp. The others were aiding to transport the wounded to the special tents.

The Queen of Navarre stepped closer to the knights, among whom there were her subjects and those of King François. Dressed in a high-necked gown of crimson brocade, Catherine looked like the Roman goddess of war – Bellona – in the light from many campfires around them.

“My friends!” Catherine commenced. “I did not fight with you, but my heart was with you all during these weeks when we resisted the vile Spaniards who wanted to conquer us and crush our spirits. They failed thanks to all of you: everyone is a hero of Navarre and France!”

Montpensier exclaimed, “For the Houses of Albert and of Valois!” Jean’s smile confirmed that his flattery had hit home. “For Queen Catherine! For King Jean! For King François!”

“For France! For Navarre!” Lautrec proclaimed. The men echoed.

Catherine continued, “My grandfather, the blessed Charles the Seventh of France, expelled the English invaders from France. I have a staunch and deep faith in my cousin, François.”

Jean supplemented, “God bless the King of France and the Duke de Nemours!”

A stab of jealousy and ire speared through Charles de Bourbon. Why was Gaston de Foix, who was his coeval, hailed as a hero, and was a duke and their liege lord’s friend? His contribution to the victory in Navarre was significant, and King François had to give him more offices and lands. _As the oldest Bourbon male, I must be Duke de Bourbon, not Charles d’Alençon who married Suzanne de Bourbon. Only more titles can compensate for this iniquity,_ Montpensier mused bitterly. 

* * *

**_Night, November 15-16, 1514, French military camp, near Tournai, Artois, France_ **

“I need silence to focus,” requested the King of France as he seated himself at his desk. 

Queen Elisabeth watched her husband move his quill along a sheet of paper. Silence permeated the tumult of her emotions, which were bubbling inside her like a running brook. She sat in an armchair by the hearth, a bejeweled goblet of spiced wine clasped in her hand, sipping the red liquid.

The tent was dimly illuminated by candles placed on two bedside tables and at the monarch’s desk. Elisabeth shivered despite sitting close to the fire, but not from the cold. A pall of anxiety shrouded her at the thought of the upcoming battle. _François is afraid of dying tomorrow…_

She prohibited herself from thinking about the bad outcome of the conflict for Tournai. In spite of her affection for Henry, Bess had long chosen her side – in this war, her allegiance to France and her French family was unwavering. Regardless of her brother’s actions, she would support François. _Henry, why did you make me trapped between François and you?_ The queen’s soul wept.

“Are you done, husband?” Elisabeth interrupted the pause.

The monarch veered his scrutiny to his consort. “Yes. This is a note for my cousin – Charles d’Alençon. If something happens to me, he will ascend to the throne. Charles is an honorable man, and he will take excellent care of you and our daughters. Before I left Blois, we had reconciled.”

At the thought of his possible demise, her heart swooped. “Charles and I are friends.”

His eyes were vacant. “You might need it very soon.”

“You cannot make peace with Henry, can you?” She knew the answer, but still asked.

Hardness entered his gaze. “Are you worried about Henry? He can dethrone us!”

Elisabeth throttled her ire. “You don’t believe me, do you? After all these weeks we have spent together in the camp? After I did everything to inspire your men? Haven’t I lent you moral support?”

After a pause, François delivered in a voice layered with guilt, “Perhaps it is rather selfish of me to demand your absolute loyalty, but given France’s history, you cannot blame me for it.”

“The shadow of that Isabeau of Bavaria hangs over the country and you.”

The queen cursed her brother wordlessly. _Can the bad blood between England and France transform into friendship?_ Her combat against the ghosts of the past would be difficult. She had more chances to expel the dark phantoms from her husband’s mind than from the minds of the French.

Since her arrival, Elisabeth was always attired in Valois colors. She thanked Anne de France again and again for having commissioned several gowns for her and her ladies in different styles, all of them made in blue, white, and golden brocades, damasks, and satins, embroidered with fleur-de-lis. To her surprise, François had once allowed her to attend a Military Council meeting.

Most of the French soldiers looked at the queen in awe. Although Anne de France and Louise de Savoy were both strong regents, they had never led their troops anywhere, nor had their gone to their armies. The Constable of France and Marshals had led wars for them. Elisabeth was perceived as almost a warrior queen, and this flattered her. It was the image Bess planned to cultivate. Yet, some warriors still looked at their sovereign’s wife with a trace of apprehension.

Elisabeth made a sip of wine. “If I could fight, I would have donned my armor, taken my sword, and gone with you to the battlefield. Yet, I don’t know how to handle weapons.”

This elicited a grin from him. “That would have been a sight to behold! A red-haired goddess of war, my own Bellona, defending her husband and the people of Tournai.”

Her response was serious. “Will you teach me to use sword?”

“I shall, Bess, if I don’t die; with sword, rapier, daggers, and other weapons.”

Her heart was slipping into a void of hurt. “François, you will not leave me and our girls.” Her hand flew to her stomach. “I may be carrying your child. We all need you alive.”

“I don’t wish to distress you, but we must speak about the worst.”

“No, no, no.” She tossed her head and nervously gulped from the goblet.

“Yes, Bess. Regardless of our feelings.” The ruler’s gaze was latched on to her belly. “I would be happy if you discover later that you are pregnant and then give birth to my son.”

François grabbed a letter from a pile of parchments and read it aloud.

_François de Valois,_

_I cannot call you ‘Your Majesty.’ Although you were crowned, you are a faux monarch, just as your Valois ancestors were. My claim to France is superior to yours, so you are a usurper of my rightful throne. I’ll ensure that you will be defeated, captured, or destroyed._

_Tomorrow we shall fight for Tournai._

_Henry Tudor, King of England and the rightful King of France_

The monarch threw the letter on the floor. “Your brother’s page brought it yesterday, as you remember, Bess. Henry made his intentions clear. He might endeavor to kill me.” 

An incensed Elisabeth hurtled her cup at the hearth. The wine spilled into the flames, and the fire sputtered, but it did not die, as if symbolizing the unshakeable future of the Valois family.

“My dratted brother will not win!” moaned Elisabeth. “You will not leave this earth!”

Nevertheless, the ruler sighed audibly. “But if I do, our girls will be taken care of, and my Valois and Bourbon cousins will fight for France. You might be able to _remarry_.”

“No!” The queen’s tone was pleading in the extreme. “Please! Don’t speak so!”

Elisabeth stood up. François also climbed to his feet. Her light footsteps towards him, muffled by a red Aubusson carpet, signaled her desire to touch him, to reassure herself that he was a breathing human being. He strode forward to her, his tall silhouette towering over her like the play of shadows in a somber chamber. For a handful of heartbeats, they beheld each other, their gazes tinged with longing and despair. The stillness augmented the acuteness of their heightened terrors.

Despite his lack of love for her, they were partners in marriage. During their time together in the camp, François had comprehended it more clearly. “I’m so glad that you are my queen.”

Candor poured out of Bess like pure water. “In childhood, I dreamed of becoming the Queen of France. We are not in love, but I would not want to marry anyone else, François.”

“Even though I am not the finest knight you first imagined?”

“You are the Knight-King, and you will prove it tomorrow.”

Closing the gap between them, the monarch gathered her into his arms. His consort melted into his embrace and clung to him, a shower of tears deluging his doublet of gray brocade.

François kissed away her tears. “Don’t cry, Bess. Please, don’t.” 

She was a picture of a melancholic, yet bellicose, nymph. “The Almighty will help you. Henry seeks glory and conquest, but he will find only defeat and ruin at your hands.”

“Gaston approved of Monty’s plan. We are lucky to have received his missive. I wonder how he is doing in Navarre…” The news of Gaston’s victory had not yet reached Artois.

Waves of anguish swept over Elisabeth. “Promise me to return to me alive.”

“I shall try,” the ruler whispered as he tightened his arms around her. 

Her gaze reflected her terrified beseeching. “Give me a son if I’m not already with child, for it is too early to judge.” She swallowed convulsively. “And come back to me, François.”

His lips brushed hers like a feather. “I shall do my best, Bess.” He then carried her to their bed. 

ξξξξξ

Elisabeth donned her gown and cloak. Casting a glance at her sleeping husband on the bed, she tiptoed to the exit and walked out. She put her hand to her mouth as the sentinels noticed her, signaling them to be silent. They bowed and saw her stride to the tent occupied by the Montmorency spouses. The guards near the tent of the king’s friend dropped into bows.

“I must see your master. Urgently.” Out of tact, Bess would not come unannounced.

As the tent’s flap opened, Baron Anne de Montmorency appeared, his expression sleepy. His rumpled doublet of blue brocade was hastily thrown on, indicating the quickness of his coming. The queen herself dismissed the guards to have privacy with the general.

Montmorency sketched a bow. “Your Majesty, to what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you?” 

Elisabeth announced without preamble, “I want you to accompany me to my brother’s camp. It is located on the opposite bank of the river, but I need your help to get there.”

Montmorency’s countenance evolved into horror. “No! King Henry might arrest you.”

Bess pointed out, “I know Henry well. He will let me leave.”

“Your Majesty, please don’t–” He was interrupted.

Her resolution solidified. “I must tell him some truths, Monty.”

An instant later, Marie de Montmorency exited from the tent. She curtsied before inquiring, “Your Majesty, shouldn’t you and King François be resting before the battle tomorrow?”

Montmorency put in, “The queen is determined to travel to her brother.”

Marie shrugged. “But it will not stop him.”

Elisabeth deigned to explain. “You both are my close friends. You know that Henry sent to my husband a threatening note, so it is my duty to warn him against harming François.” She sucked in a painful breath. “Because if he does, I’ll not be responsible for my further actions.”

“Madame, it is hazardous.” Yet, he was close to giving in to her solicitations.

The queen bristled. “If you don’t escort me, I shall ask His Grace de Vendôme.”

Marie was conscious of her childhood friend’s determination. “Monty, _mon amour_ , please obey. In spite of everything King Henry is doing, he will not apprehend his sister.”

The baron grimly agreed, “I shall do it, but if our sovereign learns about it…”

The queen tipped her head. “The moon is waxing, and we will ride there quickly.”

Elisabeth gazed between the Montmorency spouses. Their expressions were full of dread at the thought of what could transpire if the Valois ruler had learned about his wife’s adventure.

Montmorency emitted a sigh. “We will do as Your Majesty wishes.”

Elisabeth and Montmorency left through the back of the camp not to attract attention of guards. The moonlight reflected in the water as they neared the River Scheldt, the main one in Artois. The Anglo-Imperial camp appeared in the darkness like a wraith, and the bare trees rustled in the wind. 

* * *

_**Night, November 15-16, 1514, English military camp, near Tournai, Artois, France** _

“Halt, who goes there?” a guard, dressed in Tudor livery, inquired in a high voice. He and his partner watched the approaching figures with both suspicion and surprise.

“Queen Elisabeth of France,” the female guest introduced regally in clear English. “The _former_ Princess Elizabeth Tudor of England, escorted by Monsieur Anne de Montmorency.”

She took off the hood of her cloak so that they could see her Tudor red-gold hair and her pale green eyes, which even in the dimness of the torchlight were unmistakable.

“Is the King of France sending his own wife to capitulate?” another guard jeered, smiling rather stupidly. He spoke in his native language, perhaps expecting her not to understand.

The queen glared at him. “If anything, I’ve come here to negotiate my brother’s surrender.”

“Your Majesty,” called Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, as he walked towards them,

Judging from his hurried manner of dress, Elisabeth suspected that someone had told Henry she was here, and he had sent Suffolk to fetch her. “To you, Charles, my proper title is sister, for we have known each other for too long. I hope you and Mary found my wedding present pleasing enough.”

Suffolk bowed to her, then gave a nod at Montmorency. “We did, thank you.”

Unlike her brothers, Elisabeth had been overjoyed when she heard that Princess Mary Tudor had eloped with Charles. She had sent a letter to her sister along with her gift, assuring the couple that they had at least one person in their corner, wishing them nothing but happiness. _Unlike my brothers, both Edmund and Henry, I find Charles and Mary very compatible; they married for love._

Charles gestured to the right from the queen. They strode through the camp that seemed almost deserted in the dead of night, save a few sentinels lurking in the light from several blazing campfires. 

She told him, “Remind Mary that I’m eagerly awaiting a niece named Elisabeth.”

“Yes, Madame,” Brandon concurred as they came to a stop near the royal tent.

“Wait for me here, Monty,” the queen requested.

Montmorency entreated, “Your Majesty! Be careful, please.”

“Nothing will happen to her,” Suffolk allayed. 

A Tudor standard floated in the air proudly. Two guards crisscrossed the spears in front of the tent, but Suffolk explained who the guest was. Elisabeth then entered the tent alone. 

The queen examined her surroundings. It was sumptuously furnished with hangings, tapestries, and ornately carved furniture, befitting a rich ruler. Apparently, Henry had gotten dressed in a great hurry, but, unlike Brandon, he had donned not only his clothes, but also a golden chain that danged from his neck and his crown. _As always, Henry endeavors to make impression upon everyone. I would not be surprised if he slept with his crown on,_ Elisabeth snorted inwardly as she curtsied.

“Sweet sister, you are a sight for sore eyes,” Henry exclaimed as he labored to embrace her, but she stepped back. “Why are you in Artois? Were you bored at the lewd French court?”

She shot back, “Because of your invasion of my and my husband’s realm.”

He wanted to avoid arguments. “What has that monster done to drive you from his camp?”

“My husband has done nothing wrong,” Elisabeth flung back, bristling at the implication that François could cause her any physical harm, although he could hurt her emotionally. “He has not invaded your lands. Yet, you have attacked him, breaking the treaty our grandmother and our father made, and making the English look like a country of perfidious, bloodthirsty knaves.”

“Liz, please, I do not wish to have a squabble with you,” the ruler pleaded. 

She fumed, “On the contrary, the minute you, the King of Aragon, and the emperor invaded this country, you started fighting against me. Or have you forgotten that I’m the Queen of France?”

Henry inhaled sharply, visibly keeping his temper controlled. “Elisabeth, I am the rightful King of France. His Holiness has decreed it, and he will crown me himself once we win.” He then stressed, “He is God’s representative on earth, so his word is the law for everyone.”

 _And when you do not win, he will deny ever supporting you,_ the French queen mused ruefully before verbalizing her thoughts. “If Pope Leo said that François was the true King of England, would you be so quick to listen to him? What would you do in this case, Henry?”

“That is completely different,” spluttered the monarch. He raised his voice, reminding Bess of the times when they were children, and he would try to deny something despite all evidence to the contrary. “I have the rightful claim to France. Our ancestor, King Edward the Third, must have become the King of France after the direct Capetian male line died out. Henry the Fifth of England–”

The queen rolled her eyes and interrupted. “Spare me the history lesson, brother. You see yourself as Henry the Fifth, the winner of Agincourt, perhaps even as William the Conqueror. Or maybe our noble father who took the English crown after the Battle of Bosworth Field of 1485. However, let me tell you something: you are the epitome of King Richard the Third.”

“What?!” His eyes widened fractionally. “You dare compare me to that villainous kinslayer, that Crookbacked Usurper!” Henry shouted, torn between outrage and confusion.

“Before I left for France, you had promised that you would always be my loving brother. Nonetheless, your loyalty to me, if you can call it so, does not apply to my family. I fear to learn about your plans for François, but what would you have done to my daughters, who are your nieces?”

“I would have arranged good marriages for them,” pointed out the king.

“Even if François dies–” She paused for a split second, for the mere thought of her spouse’s demise was like a dagger in her gut. “Even if he dies, there are other _male_ heirs to the French throne: Duke Charles d’Alençon and the House of Bourbon. Would you do away with all of them?” 

He gnashed his teeth. “Dammit, Elisabeth! I am your brother. How can you take the French side over your flesh and blood? How can you ignore that France belongs to the Tudors?” 

“Oh please! Don’t mistake me for a fool,” the Valois queen sneered derisively. “All Catherine had to do was to dangle the idea of your becoming the King of France to get you to join her father on this bloodthirsty venture.” She was certain that his hypocritical wife encouraged him to attack France, wanting to keep the enmity between the two countries so that Spain would profit from it.

“Catherine had nothing to do with this.” An incensed Henry bellowed with a scowl, “Unlike that soft pansy you call your husband, I do not allow women to rule me.”

His ire transmitted to Bess as she roared, “François is ten times the man you can ever be, Henry!” Suddenly, she darted to him and slapped him across the face with all her strength.

The queen backed away, as if anticipating her brother to punch her in response. For a few minutes, there was no sound, but their ragged breathing as they both shook with rage.

“Get out before I do something I regret,” Henry growled at last, his fists clenched.

“I shall, but let me assure you of something,” started Elisabeth, now in a more composed voice. Sticking her chin out defiantly, she promulgated, “England will always be my homeland, and you will always be my sibling. Nonetheless, if I could handle weapons, I would fight beside my French subjects and my spouse to repel you, for now I am _Elisabeth de Valois, Queen of France_.”

Before her brother could retort, Bess pivoted and stormed out without a backward glance. 

When she stepped outside, she gave Charles Brandon a regretful look, for he would have to deal with an incensed Henry, who was probably throwing things around his tent by now like a child.

“Hopefully, if we meet again, it will be under better circumstances,” she said quietly.

“I hope so, too.” Suffolk flinched when he heard the sound of something breaking and crashing from inside the tent. “Godspeed, Your Majesty.” His tone was courteous.

Bess and Montmorency began making their way out of the camp, only to be stopped by a small group of guards in red and yellow livery. They were led by a gray-haired man with a protruding chin. 

_Oh dear, are they planning to detain us?_ Elisabeth wondered fearfully. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Montmorency place his hand on the pommel of his sword, ready to defend her despite them being significantly outnumbered. The French guests correctly assumed that this man must be the Holy Roman Emperor, judging by his guards’ uniform and by his appearance.

“Peace! I mean you both no harm,” Emperor Maximilian assured in Flemish. His scrutiny darted between the French general and the queen. “You must be Queen Elisabeth of France.”

The queen tipped her head. “Yes, I am. Your Imperial Majesty?” She spoke in Flemish as well. 

Maximilian answered, this time with a smile, “Indeed. I’m wary of letting you leave without more guards. I must ask that you let some of my men escort you back to the French camp.”

“I’m grateful, but that is not necessary,” Elisabeth refused at first. 

The emperor tried to reason with her. “What if bandits had attacked you? I would have that on my conscience. Therefore, grant me this boon if for no other reason but to put my mind at rest.”

The queen glanced at Montmorency who had inclined his head in approval before. She then glanced back at Maximilian and uttered, “We accept your kind offer, Your Imperial Majesty.”

In a few minutes, Elisabeth and Montmorency galloped away from the Anglo-Imperial camp. _Emperor Maximilian is a knight in spite of being our enemy,_ Elisabeth remarked to herself. 

* * *

**_Night, November 15-16, 1514, French military camp, near Tournai, Artois, France_ **

Queen Elisabeth and Anne de Montmorency crossed the River Scheldt and did not make it to halfway point between the two camps when they encountered Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme. The duke was leading his own contingent of soldiers, presumably to fetch them.

After a tense standoff, the Imperial guards retreated to the other shore of the river, allowing the Frenchmen to escort their queen and general back to their camp. As they arrived, Montmorency helped Bess jump down from the saddle and dismounted himself; their stallions were led away.

“Go get some rest, Monty.” Elisabeth then avowed, “I’ll explain everything to the king.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Despite being somewhat reluctant, Montmorency did not argue with her, for it was important to get as much sleep as he could before the battle. 

Queen Elisabeth’s misgivings materialized: King François was wide awake in his night clothes of red brocade, ornamented with gold thread, when his spouse entered their tent. He sat in a chair by the hearth, glowering at her as if she were one of his subjects who had erred greatly.

“No need to tiptoe like a thief, wife,” he jested with a trace of reproach.

His consort regarded him with a blend of amusement and admiration. _He wears no jewels, no crown, and yet he looks every inch like a king. If he were to ride out tomorrow in his nightshirt, there would not be a single man unwilling to follow him,_ Elisabeth speculated, a grin tugging at her lips. She was delighted to see her husband again, her heart thumping in her breast. 

“What were you thinking!?” François cried. He then admonished, “Sneaking out to visit your brother! He could have captured you and Monty to use you both as hostages against me.” 

“Henry would not do that to me,” Elisabeth opined firmly.

 _What would François have done if I had been captured by Henry?_ Elisabeth wondered. Would he have fought to get her back, or would he have asked for an annulment after the end of the war, cutting his loses and starting over with a new marriage? However, she swiftly banished this thought, deciding it was an unfair question, doubting her husband’s chivalry.

“What was so important that you had to see him in the middle of the night?” 

The queen confessed, “I hoped that maybe I could get him to see sense, or perhaps I wanted to slap him with a dose of reality. More importantly, I wished for him to understand that by attacking France, he has evolved into my foe, and that although I love him still, I shall fight against him, not just for me, not for our children’s inheritance, not just for you, but for France herself.”

François approached her. Taking her hands in his, he kissed her knuckles. “You have such fire, Bess, and it thrills me. Promise me that you will not walk into an enemy camp for my peace of mind.”

His spouse’s mouth lengthened into a smile. “Only if you promise not be upset with Monty. His only crime was that I strong-armed him into accompanying him,” she half-implored, half-demanded.

The ruler helped her out of her cloak and put it on a chair. “I’ll have a few words with him, but I know that when you have your mind set on something, only my mother can convince you out of it.” 

“That is very true,” Elisabeth admitted. “I miss Madame Louise.” 

“Let’s return to bed.” He began assisting her in undressing. “I have a feeling that your brother will be particularly focused on me tomorrow, and I wish to be fully rested when I face him.”

As her husband walked her to bed while unlacing her gown, Elisabeth frowned, detesting the idea of her husband and her brother finding themselves locked in a duel during tomorrow’s battle for Tournai. It made Bess sick to her stomach, the very idea that one of them might be killed. 

* * *

**_Morning, November 16, 1514, near the city of Tournai, Artois, France_ **

At midday, King François I of France stood looking at the River Scheldt shimmering in the rays of autumn sun. He was encumbered in an eccentric armor that was fashioned of gold, silver, and steel with leather and red velvet trimmings. There was a gilded crown upon his helmet. 

The monarch and Anne de Montmorency were now at the left bank of the river. Their gazes wandered across the Scheldt valley and part of the historical city of Tournai in the distance. They could see the famous _Pont des Trous Bridge_ , or the Bridge of Holes, on the river with the outlines of the ancient Cathedral of Tournai in the west. The Anglo-Imperial armies, which had been camped on the opposite river bank, had already crossed the river and were now arranging into rows.

The young king interrupted the silence. “Clovis the First, the first ruler of all Salic Franks from the Merovingian dynasty, was born in Tournai. The town has been part of our kingdom or associated with it since the early 10th century. We cannot allow the invaders to annex it.”

“We shall not, Your Majesty,” avouched Montmorency; he was fully clad in armor. “According to my plan, approved by His Grace de Nemours, they will be trapped.” The messenger from Navarre had appeared in the French camp today in the early morning hours. 

François glanced at the bridge. “They cannot imagine what is awaiting them there.”

Montmorency jeered acridly, “We will make a piece of meat out of the Englishmen.”

Charles d’Amboise, Marshal of France and the chief minister, hurried to them. He bowed and reported, “Your Majesty, everyone is ready and knows their roles.”

“Excellent.” François lowered the visor of his burgonet. “I see our enemies are ready.”

The ruler and the other key generals went to the royal tent. Today was the Feast of St Albert the Great in honor of the German Catholic Dominican friar Albert of Cologne. Louis Guillard, Bishop of Tournai, performed benediction over them. Then they strode to the front lines and ordered their men to prepare. The white ground was slippery because the first snow had fallen during the night.

“Are you all right, Monty?” enquired François. “You are a bit absent-minded.”

Montmorency lowered his visor. “I must admit I’m a bit nervous.”

François jested, “My friend, you must have had a merry night with your charming wife.”

Charles d’Amboise let out a laugh. “Your Majesty had a vigorous night as well.”

The monarch tipped his head back and laughed. “Indeed. With God’s blessing, there will be a male Valois in the royal cradle soon.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Even if I die.”

Clad in black armor, Amboise vowed, “Your Majesty will be unharmed, just as I promised.”

The monarch glanced between the two men. “The Duke de Nemours crushed the Spaniards in Navarre, and now it is our turn to vanquish the invaders in Tournai.”

Amboise and Montmorency inclined their heads. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

ξξξξξ

“Now we must watch,” promulgated King François. He stood in front of his numerous amazed cavalrymen, who were already mounted and itching to attack the enemy. “Until my signal.”

Charles d’Amboise and Anne de Montmorency flanked the monarch. 

The sound of a horn resonated, and the English commenced their cavalry attack with ululating cries. At the head of them François distinguished his hated rival – King Henry VIII of England. Henry wore an armor, which completely enclosed his body front and rear, and which was adorned with the Tudor arms and the entwined “H & K.” His destrier was draped in Tudor colors. 

Waves of animosity washed over François _. This man behaves like a boy who wishes to conquer the world and use it like his favorite toy. But he will not win today,_ the monarch mused as his hands clenched into balls. Behind Henry, François recognized two mounted soldiers: Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury. The English cavalry included ten thousand.

The English were swiftly nearing them. The Valois cavalry was stationed upon the natural high ground in Tournai’s vicinity, so the men on the bridge would obtain an advantage over the heavily armored foe. Montmorency left to check archers, concealed behind a prominent thick hedge. 

Amboise assumed, “The cannons and arches will send them into panic.”

“Hopefully.” François could not shift his gaze away from his worst enemy.

Montmorency opined, “This is a good trick which Charles the Seventh once used.”

“Find that Valois usurper!” they heard the King of England. “Destroy him!”

“Not so quickly, you Tudor scum,” grumbled the Valois ruler.

A moment later, volleys of arrows were loosed by those who were hiding on the bridge and by Montmorency’s forces. Most of them found their marks, and screams of agony filled the cold air. The intense shooting over the enemy vanguard continued, and the shafts cut down many of English forces. Horses bolted, and hundreds were tossed from the saddles onto the snowy ground. Bodies of the dead and wounded mingled, while a tornado of arrows was rained down upon everyone.

“They are on the bridge, damn them!” King Henry shouted in English. He was still astride his stallion, with two men protecting him with shields. “And from somewhere else!”

“Cannons!” enjoined Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme. He was the commander of those men who were responsible for shooting the adversaries from the bridge near Tournai. “Fire!”

The French artillery fired with remarkable precision. More foes slipped from their horses dead or injured. Panic was escalating, and the Earl of Shrewsbury ordered, “Hold the line!”

“Fight for England!” shouted the Tudor ruler. “For me! I’m the rightful King of France!”

An incensed François jumped onto his destrier, swathed in blue, golden, and white velvet; it was ornamented with fleur-de-lis. Few of his men knew English, but they were impatient to attack.

Charles d’Amboise rushed to his sovereign’s stallion and grabbed the reins from François’ hands. “Your Majesty ought to curb your irrational eagerness. Allow Vendôme to diminish their numbers after series of detrimental cannon fire. They have a lot of gunpowder in stock.”

The monarch nodded. “Charles, you are right.”

The French artillery fired several times. The archers were now releasing flaming arrows from the bridge and from the hedge where Montmorency’s soldiers were positioned. The pitiful rustles and moans were all too real, and the valley transmuted into the most dreadful place. The assault of the Tudor cavalry was rooted, and as soon as the King of England instructed to continue, new volleys of arrows and cannon fire stopped him again. Then the English and Imperial infantry appeared.

“Defend our king and kill the French!” ordered the Earl of Shrewsbury.

Carrying the Valois standard, Montmorency left the hedges and ran to the rows of the infantry waiting behind the French cavalry. “It is time, Your Majesty!”

“It is time!” echoed François as he spurred his destrier on the flanks.

The ruler of France galloped into the heart of the confused and wounded melee, his tall figure in his extravagant armor gleaming in the sunlight like polished gold. Amboise and the Scots guards rode after him at a breakneck speed; one of the guards carried Valois standard.

“His Majesty is there!” Vendôme warned. “Be careful!” Then his men fired again.

“For King François!” the French roared altogether like hundreds of lions.

The canon fire crushed numerous Englishmen, and their liege lord was unharmed because he was well noticeable from a distance on his horse and in his crown. King François was swinging the excellently polished blade here and there, and men dropped dead wherever he passed. Although it was François’ first battle, years of his rigorous training had shaped him into a formidable swordsman.

François was slaying his many foes – those who were still mounted and attempted to hide from arrows and cannon fire with shields, and those who had been unhorsed. Amboise and the royal Scots guards formed a triangle around their sovereign. At last, the English were able to regroup. 

Moving on his stallion through the horde, François killed his opponents and contemplated the Imperial cavalry force of about ten thousand as they rounded a bend of a cobble-stoned road leading to Tournai. Emperor Maximilian, clad in a plate armor with elaborate decoration and coloring with etching, was at the head of his men. Maximillian’s golden armet with bellows visor was recognizable since it was widely known that the emperor always fought in this armor and helmet.

“Attack them!” shrilled Maximilian in German, which François knew well. 

“For France!” François bellowed while dealing with some warrior. “No pity to the invaders!”

“For the House of Valois!” cried the French. “Long Live King François!”

“Our only sovereign is King François!” Montmorency slashed someone’s throat.

François paused for a brief moment to adjust his burgonet on his head. Then he immediately dived into the ferocious mass of cavalrymen who were mercilessly taking the lives of the opponents. The severely battered English rejoiced with the arrival of their Imperial allies.

“Your Imperial Majesty!” hollered King Henry. “Let’s annihilate them all!”

After finishing off his assailant, the French monarch cast a brief glance at the bridge, from where a multitude of flaming arrows was released. Vendôme knew the value of fire concentration, so he had amassed a great deal of guns in batteries created on the bridge. Now they fired less often because of their liege lord’s presence in the field, but Vendôme’s men always poured a devastating point-blank fire into the Imperial assaulting lines. The Germans had to cover the emperor with shields.

 _Our surprises are not yet over,_ François rejoiced silently as he impaled someone on his sword. His emotions did not cause him to lose concentration. His lips curved in a grin as he saw dead Imperial warriors on the ground. Then arrived five thousand landsknechts under Jacob Empser, who served the Valois, and six thousand crossbow men under Gaspard de Coligny, Seigneur de Châtillon.

The Earl of Shrewsbury headed the entire English reserve of about ten thousand. Moments later, Robert III de La Marck, Marshal of France and Duke de Bouillon, appeared with five thousand of the Valois light cavalry, and Montmorency came with his infantry of ten thousand – they together crashed into the Imperial cavalry and infantry of approximately the same numbers.

“Fire, Vendôme!” bellowed the King of France as he twirled on his hose while making a deadly circle blow that beheaded the adversaries around him. “Act as we agreed!”

Amboise admonished, “Your Majesty, this is a risky part of the plan.”

“Our artillery must finish them off.” The monarch decapitated his rival. “I’ll get _us_ away from the bridge.” He glanced back at the English king who was slugging his way through the melee. 

François began moving away from the town towards one of the many corpses in the valley. His guards and Amboise, who were all aware of the maneuver, followed their liege lord.

The Tudor invader snarled, “That coward is escaping!” 

“Your Majesty, don’t pursue him!” implored Charles Brandon.

“Hold the line!” hollered the Earl of Shrewsbury. “Keep fighting!”

The King of France and his private guard left the field behind. Vendôme’s men shot more arrows upon the invaders, many of whom slipped onto the earth. Fewer men remained mounted, and a horse was injured beneath Emperor Maximilian. His German guards aided him to avoid a clash with a riderless stallion, and then the French artillery pounded the adversaries mercilessly. 

As cannon fire resumed from the bridge, Maximilian screeched, “Retreat!” 

The surviving Habsburg army were trying to extricate themselves from the battle. Maximilian’s knights clashed with other mounted knights and riderless horses, and a chaos escalated. The emperor and his entourage managed to cross the river, where they encountered the French gendarmes and more artillery under Philippe de Chabot, which were formed up in an arc. 

The Imperial soldiers took their places and started deadly fire at Maximilian’s command. Some French were annihilated, but the Valois artillery responded in an equally fierce measure. The French had underestimated the number of artillery canons that the enemy had left on the opposite bank of the river. The sporadic exchange of fire swiftly developed into a full-scale artillery duel. 

“Fire!” Emperor Maximilian commanded as he lay on the ground between two cannons.

It began snowing, and the sun was barely visible from behind a thick chain of clouds.

ξξξξξ

In fifty feet from the main battlefield, furious King François and King Henry were involved in a dangerous battle. Both men were now fighting with their swords clasped in their right hands and their poniards in their left ones together with the reins. Charles d’Amboise was locked in a combat with the Duke of Suffolk on foot, and so were the other guards. The forces were equally matched.

“We have outwitted you, Henry!” taunted his Valois archrival in English.

After blocking, the English king snarled, “France is my kingdom!”

“It has never been yours!” François launched a series of rampageous strikes. “And it will never be. Weren’t the last twenty years of the Hundred Years’ War an educational lesson for the English? Charles the Seventh’s generals outgunned your ancestors almost in every battle.”

For a split second, all seemed to quieten down, as if the universe ceased to exist save the enmity between the two monarchs. In the distance, the battlefield resounded with noise, swords colliding and men shouting, cannons firing as the contest between the Imperial and Valois artillery continued on the other side of the River Scheldt. Amboise and Suffolk were still trading blows.

Henry switched to French. “We had you beaten severely at Crécy, Poitiers, and Agincourt.”

“These times are long gone,” replied François in his native tongue.

“I’ll beat you!” snarled Henry as he directed a diagonal blow at his adversary. 

François laughed as he parried easily. “Not today, _mon ami_. Perhaps you need to take lessons from my Constable and my Marshals.” His acrimonious laugh boomed like a million tiny bells. “You forgot the lessons of history, and we used some of Charles the Seventh’s experiences.”

The Tudor ruler let out a howl of fury as his sword clashed with the other king’s. “Even if I don’t succeed today, I’ll take my ancestors’ lands back from the French robbers.”

“These lands have long become French.” François wielded his weapons like the sparkling rays of stars. “Actually, Aquitaine and even Normandy have always been close in culture to Île-de-France. Philippe the Second Augustus was a genius so he dismantled the Angevin empire.”

The Tudor ruler was barely holding onto his temper. “You will pay for your insolence! You are a libertine who has no right to rule my kingdom! You betrayed my sister many times!”

The Valois monarch stabbed forward. “Haven’t you betrayed your wife as well, as you put it?”

The distant cannonades were getting less and less frequent, signaling someone’s approaching victory. The snowfall intensified considerably, and, before long, the ground and trees were white.

François wielded his sword in a high, curving slash. “You betrayed your own sister, too.”

Henry’s frayed temper snapped. When their stallions neared each other, the King of England steered his mount forward, snarling like an enraged tiger. The beasts collided, and Henry hopped onto the saddle of his opponent, knocking the poniard and sword out of François’ hands. Under the weight of these men, François’ destrier bolted, careered for a few meters, and then threw them off.

“Your Majesty!” shouted a horrified Charles d’Amboise as he dodged Suffolk’s blow.

François and Henry landed onto the ground. Both exasperated, they rolled over and exchanged blows, their armor clinking and scraping before the Tudor ruler climbed on top of him.

“I’ve won,” Henry growled, glaring at his nemesis.

“Only in your dreams.” François kicked him with his legs.

Having pushed him away, the French king jumped to his feet; the other man did the same. Henry extracted a dagger that hung on his sword belt and struck François’ cheek.

The King of France was not injured – his burgonet protected him. “Playing dirty.”

“Your Majesty!” The Earl of Shrewsbury emerged with his knights as they were escaping from the field. He produced a bow from his saddlebag and nocked an arrow. “I’ll protect you.” It was flying directly into François who stood slightly dazed from Henry’s earlier attack.

“No!” Amboise rushed to his king. Just before the arrow could strike his liege lord, he arrived.

“Charles!” François’ scream of consternation resonated through the valley.

The Valois ruler lay on the ground with Amboise atop of him. Shrewsbury’s arrow was sticking out of the opening in Amboise’s visor. The thud of Englishmen’s hooves was as loud as thunder. 

“Your Majesty, jump on my horse,” urged Shrewsbury.

“Thank you!” Not looking back, the Tudor monarch hopped onto Shrewsbury’s horse.

The English raced away from the valley, with Suffolk and Henry’s guards trailing after them. They urged their steeds into an insane gallop, their destination being the city of Calais.

In a handful of instances, Montmorency emerged with Robert Stewart, Seigneur d’Aubigny, and Robert III de La Marck, Marshal of France and Duke de Bouillon.

La Marck continued the pursuit. “After them!” His cavalcade followed the run-away English.

The French guards disentwined François and Amboise. His dizziness gone; the monarch bolted to his feet only to see the lifeless Charles on the stomach next to him.

“The arrow!” cried a despairing François. “Take it out!”

Montmorency and Aubigny dismounted and sprinted to their sovereign, bowing.

One of the ruler’s guards apprised, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. It is a mortal wound.”

François discarded his helmet. “He saved me from Shrewsbury’s arrow.”

The King of France fell to his knees and turned around the body of France’s chief minister. A funereal silence ensued, pulsating with the indescribable sorrow François felt because of Amboise’s sacrifice and demise. Not caring who witnessed it, the monarch gathered the body into his arms.

His heart broke into numberless smithereens. _I love you, Charles_ , François whispered as he pressed the corpse to him. _I love you as a father, for I do not remember my own father who died when I was a toddler. You were a parent to me. Whatever I did, you always helped and mentored me. You saved my life, just as you pledged._ A flood of guilt for not rescuing his friend swamped François, and a tart feeling of self-loathing in his mouth was abominable, so he swallowed convulsively.

No one dared interfere, knowing how close François was with Charles d’Amboise.

As he finally left the body on the ground, the monarch stood up. A blizzard was raging all around them, as if the nature were incensed at the murder of France’s chief minister.

“Charles will be buried as a hero,” François declared in an anguished voice. “I’ll announce the tragic tidbits to my mother myself.” As he envisaged the sufferings of his beloved mother who was now heavily pregnant and adored her secret lover, his heart constricted in his chest.

Montmorency tipped a nod. “As Your Majesty orders. My sincere condolences.”

“He was truly a great man; I’m so sorry.” To raise his sovereign’s mood, Robert Stuart informed, “Our trap has worked: the invaders have been defeated. The war is over, Your Majesty.”

Montmorency apprised, “Monsieur de Chabot took Emperor Maximilian prisoner when he and his men failed to flee. Now he is at your mercy. On the opposite bank of the river, there was the most violent cannonade between armies that the world has yet seen, but we have won.”

“Maybe we will capture the King of England,” Stuart presumed.

A grief-stricken François muttered, “Monty, coordinate everything. I want to return to the camp to my wife.” He cast a glance at the dead Amboise. “Take care of him.”

“We shall, my liege,” Montmorency avouched.

The Valois ruler trudged towards the river. His guards trailed after him. The snow crusted under their footfall, and gusts of wind were blowing throughout the area. The French preliminary causalities only in Artois were more than eight thousand men. However, the invasion was rooted in Tournai, the Holy Roman Emperor was the King of France’s prisoner. Nevertheless, King François could not think of their triumph now, for his friend and almost a father had given his life for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers and friends! We hope you are safe and cheerful in these difficult days!
> 
> Finally, we have the Battle of Flodden, which was won by Thomas Howard, 2nd Duke of Norfolk and his two sons, as well as of course Catherine of Aragon. The description of the maneuvers of the English and Scottish troops given in the first section are historically correct. Unfortunately, Catherine lost another child, and it was a boy, so there are some historical parallels. She treats King James’ body in a better way than she did in history.
> 
> As we promised, the invasion of France and Navarre continues in this chapter. Gaston de Foix leads his troops to victory in Navarre; the battle happens near the city of Pamplona. Odet de Foix, Viscount de Lautrec, and Thomas de Foix-Lescun are cousins to Gaston and, as you can realize, Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, who was François I’s first long-term maîtresse-en-titre. We hope that you liked the duel between Ferdinand II of Aragon and Gaston de Foix. Germaine de Foix will make her appearance in one of the next chapters.
> 
> Elisabeth and François have a difficult conversation, for he fears that he might die at the Battle of Tournai tomorrow. We hope that you liked the confrontation between Elisabeth and Henry, for it was bound to happen as he invaded her and her husband’s realm, and a person with her character would not just be silent and do nothing. Elisabeth is trying hard to prove her loyalty to France, but it is not easy for her to accomplish it because of Isabeau of Bavaria’s shadow.
> 
> The Battle of Tournai in our interpretation is a combination of the Battle of Ravenna of 1512 and one of the ending battles of the Hundred Years’ War. We hope you liked the trick with the flaming arrows and cannon fire from the bridge. We especially hope that your liked the duel between François I and Henry VIII, for we think that they had to talk, so the duel was the emotional resolution of their conflict, for now. Unfortunately, Charles d’Amboise is dead: he died as a hero who sacrificed his life for his beloved Louise’s son, King François.
> 
> This is the link to “Pont des Trous” bridge on the Scheldt River with Our Lady's Cathedral of Tournai in the distance: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tournai#/media/File:Tournai_JPG05a.jpg
> 
> In some sources, Gaston de Foix is mentioned to have been Marguerite de Navarre’s only real love or first love. So, we have Margot and Gaston have secret romance. This man – Charles de Bourbon, Count de Montpensier, de Clermont, and d’Auvergne – is the future Constable de Bourbon, but in this AU he is not married to Suzanne de Bourbon. 
> 
> Many thanks to our friend who provided invaluable assistance in editing the story.
> 
> Yours sincerely,  
> VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance


	9. Chapter 8: Consequences of an Invasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers and friends! We are sorry for the delay in updating this story. Real life sometimes gets in the way, but we will try to update once a month. Enjoy and let us know what you think!

**Chapter 8: Consequences of an Invasion**

**_December 4, 1514, Château de Gaillon, Gaillon, Normandy, France_ **

“We have almost arrived,” the Queen of France told her husband, who nodded at her.

The French ruler replied with impatience, “In several minutes.”

Queen Elisabeth smiled when she saw the tented roofs and the octagonal corner towers peeking out behind the snow-capped trees. The morning was crisp and cold; the sky was a dull gray canvas. It had stopped snowing yesterday, but the roads were slippery, so the royal cortege traveled at a slow pace. They had voyaged to Normandy from Artois extremely quickly and incognito, without Valois standard raised, so the guards from the Scots guard did not wear their usual livery. 

Her smile widened when the marble magnificence of Château de Gaillon came into view. Almost five years in France, and its Gothic and modern architecture still took her breath away. As her husband had told the queen, this château had started from essentially tattered ruins, only to be transformed into a mansion staring in 1502 by Cardinal Georges d’Amboise. The queen loved the loggias as it allowed her to get an elevated view of the beautiful valley of the River Seine.

Yet, when Bess glanced at her spouse, her excitement dampened quicker than a sudden rainfall would ruin a summer picnic. He sat across from her in their red-brocaded litter drawn by four white palfreys, a mixture of emotions dancing across his face as he stared out. From the litter’s window, they watched the park silvered by snow around them, for they were already on the castle’s territory.

The reminder of why they were here hit Elisabeth hard, and reality settled in like ice freezes the churning water. _Oh Madame Louise, you are like a mother to me. I’m aggrieved to be bringing this sad news to you. François thought that I should stay behind, but I cannot abandon you when you will need as much support as possible._ Such were the queen’s musings, her anxiety peaking.

Elisabeth reached out and placed her hand on top of François’ one to give him comfort. The monarch was startled, recoiling for a split second before realizing that his wife touched him.

“Forgive me, I was elsewhere,” François apologized, entwining their fingers. “Perhaps I should not worry about my mother as she is the strongest woman I know.” He had already confided in his spouse that his mother had been having a long-term affair with the late Charles d’Amboise.

“She is also a human being,” his wife whispered, trying not to think of her own mother who had died of childbed fever. Although it happened to many women, both younger and older, Elisabeth wondered if the heartbreak of losing Arthur had made her mother’s health frailer.

“That’s what scares me the most,” he admitted, more to himself than her.

They sat in silence as the litter passed through the massive gatehouse, allowing them to enter the main trapezoidal courtyard. After the cavalcade had stopped, one of the guards opened the door, and the ruler exited first, hurrying around and shooing the footman away so that he could help Elisabeth out himself. Their anxiety was obvious in their agitated movements.

François and Elisabeth briefly stopped on the front steps. The queen barely registered the bows and curtsies by the welcoming party. Instead, her eyes surveyed the classical paneling on the walls, the barren snowy trees in the garden to the left and to the right from the château, and the twenty-two-foot-high fountain in the center of the courtyard on top of a sculpture of Jean the Baptist. The royal couple shivered despite being clad in ermine cloaks, as a blast of wind blew towards them.

“Your Majesties, you both honor me with your presence,” George II d’Amboise commenced as he dropped into a gallant bow. His cheeks were slightly red from the cold.

Georges II d’Amboise was the Archbishop of Rouen and a cousin to Charles d’Amboise. He was also a nephew to the previous archbishop – the late Georges I d’Amboise, a councilor who had recommended Charles for the position of France’s chief minister. He was young for a cardinal, only twenty-six. A sturdy and short man, he had a long and plump face; his head was covered with a red zucchetto with matching robes. His hazel-green eyes were blank, for he controlled his emotions well.

“Your Eminence,” the monarch replied with a polite nod, his scrutiny flicking to the castle, as though he were expecting someone to appear. “How is my mother fairing?”

Immediately, the archbishop’s smile slipped, and his gaze conveyed trepidation. “I’m very sorry to announce that the Queen Mother, Madame Louise, has been so overcome with grief at the tidbits of Seigneur de Chaumont’s death that she has gone into labor.” 

The King of France’s eyes narrowed. “I gave orders that she was not to be told until our arrival. Didn’t I send a page ahead of us?” he reminded n an exasperated voice.

“Sire, I deeply apologize, but–”

Whatever excuse the hapless clergyman was about to utter, Elisabeth would not know, for she grabbed handfuls of her cloak and took off running towards the château, her heart beating as fast as a sparrow’s wings. Memories of her mother’s tragic labor ran thought her head, of how she had begged to be at her side, promising to hate her late father forever if he did not demand that she be let enter the birthing chambers, which could not happen because maidens were not allowed to attend births.

 _They will not keep me away from Madame Louise_ , Elisabeth declared to herself silently _._ She rushed up the stairs and entered the castle. People had to jump out of her way as she raced through the corridors, desperately searching for Louise’s apartments. One of the servants aided her to find them. Time seemed to stop when Bess arrived at the bedchamber where Louise was giving birth.

Two women and a midwife froze when the queen burst into the room. After she had taken off her cloak and almost thrown it on a nearby chair, Elisabeth rushed forward. She only had eyes for the woman lying in a bed canopied with blue velvet. Keeping her pregnancy in strict secrecy, Louise had taken with her only her closest confidante – Marie de Luxembourg, Dowager Countess de Vendôme. Charles d’Amboise’s widow – Jeanne Malet de Graville – had arrived at the château months ago.

Apparently, Marie de Luxembourg was not willing to allow the queen to usurp her place at Louise’s side, clutching her hand and placing a damp cloth on the woman’s forehead. Thus, Bess had to go around the bed. The queen landed on the edge of Louise’s bed, canopied with a red brocade curtain, at the other side, her eyes briefly examining the splendid interior with silver-brocaded couches, massive dark mahogany furniture, floral wallpaper, and gilt-framed paintings.

Elisabeth stared at her husband’s mother, whose countenance was contorted in physical pain mingled with anguish. “François and I have come to you together, Your Highness.”

“Is it true?” Louise asked in a whisper. She then clarified, “Is Charles really dead?” 

“Monsieur d’Amboise died a hero’s death,” Elisabeth assured her in the most gentle accents, taking Louise’s clammy hand in hers. “He saved François from the Earl of Shrewsbury’s arrow.”

Louise was biting her bottom lip, tears pooling in her eyes. “I did not want a hero,” she supplied. “I needed him to live and be with me, even though we could not marry.”

“It is God’s will, Madame.” The queen’s heart clenched, and at this moment, Bess hated her brother for causing such a colossal pain to a noble woman who had now lost great love.

“Push, Your Highness; the babe is almost here,” the midwife notified in a voice tinged with relief. The old woman, dressed in a plain black gown, stood at the bottom of the bed.

Louise let out screams as contractions wracked her body, her nails digging into the soft flesh of Elisabeth and Marie’s hands. Neither of them cared about the discomfort, as they encouraged her to keep going. Although she was sweating and exhausted, Louise pulled herself together and pushed. Time ticked slowly, and the agony in Louise’s abdomen were getting sharper with every breath.

“It is a girl!” the midwife declared soon. Seconds later, she gave the babe a resounding slap on her buttocks, which elicited a loud wail from her, signaling the child’s good health.

“A daughter,” murmured Louise, raising her head weakly from the pillow. “Charlotte. Her name will be Charlotte in honor of her father.” She had long selected it. 

Jeanne de Graville appeared next to the bed. She had been bringing bowls of fresh water during the delivery. “A beautiful name, my lady,” she affirmed as the midwife placed the babe in her arms.

“Take the best care of her,” Louise instructed, her eyes tightly shut.

Jeanne pledged, “Definitely, Your Highness, but you will see her later.” She then curtsied and left, taking her foster daughter – the girl would be raised by her and known as her child – with her.

A strangled sob slipped past Louise’s lips, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. Extending her hand towards the retreating back of her lover’s widow, she wept and wept, her soul writhing in the throes of mental torment. Her entire universe was broken into countless smithereens.

“It is all right,” the Queen of France soothed, rubbing circles on her hand. “Your Highness, she is only getting the babe cleaned and will bring her back in a minute.”

“She will, but only this time,” Louise agreed, her tone sorrowful. “Then she will depart with Charlotte and Georges, my last remaining link to my beloved Charles.”

There were no words that could comfort the Queen Mother. Therefore, Elisabeth chose to embrace her instead, sending a silent prayer to the Almighty. _Holy Father, I beg of you to watch over Louise, give her strength during this tumultuous time. She has done much for France, and we cannot afford to lose her yet._ The Queen Mother cried in her daughter-in-law’s arms until the last ounce of strength deserted her, and Louise passed out. Bess then fetched a physician in a hurry.

ξξξξξ

Waiting outside his mother’s apartments, King François labored hard to contain his ever-rising worry. He desperately wanted to enter the birthing room in order to give his mother some reassurance that everything would be well, eventually. Perhaps his presence would help her through her sorrow, but he trusted his wife to console Louise, who was now being examined by the doctor.

The ruler paced to and fro in the hallway, where the walls were swathed in biblical Flemish tapestries. For a moment, François paused and glanced at the Virgin Mary depicted on one of the wall hangings with the baby Jesus, praying to them both for his mother. Louise had once told her royal son that after his father’s death, he and Marguerite had been what kept her strong even through her darkest moments. _With my sister in Portugal, it is up to me and my wife to help my mother._

It seemed like hours had passed before Elisabeth appeared in the doorway. Before she could even step in his direction, François had already nearly pounced on her, stopping next to her. 

“How is she? How is the baby?” he quizzed, placing his hand on her forearm. “Is the infant healthy? Will my mother recuperate?” It was only when his wife winced, did he realize his grip had become too rough, so he rapidly released her and stepped back. “Sorry.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” his spouse answered. “You have a new little sister, Charlotte.”

“That an excellent name,” appreciated François.

It felt odd knowing that the king had both an illegitimate sister and a bastard brother, whom he had never seen before. His relatives he could never acknowledge, but who would be his family all the same. He would take care of his half-siblings from afar, although Jeanne de Graville would raise them. _I’ve already signed a patent of nobility making the heir of Charles d’Amboise – my brother Georges – Duke de Châtellerault. It will not look suspicious given Charles’ heroic sacrifice._

He would make sure that both children were cared for. “And my mother?”

“Despondent and exhausted, but she will recover,” Bess informed. “She wishes to see you.”

Nodding, the monarch swallowed thickly before entering the chamber. The midwife and the two other women curtsied, and he dismissed them. The queen walked in and shut the door behind her.

The Dowager Countess d’Angoulême smiled tiredly from the bed, her hair matted and messy, her eyes red and puffy. A sense of relief encompassed Louise: her eldest son, for whom she had feared for months during the war against the Anglo-Imperial invaders, was unscratched. _Gracious Lord, thank you for keeping my François alive. I wish so much that You did the same for my Charles._

“Mother, I’m glad to see you,” François began as he approached the bed. He seated himself on the edge, leaned to her, and pressed a kiss on her sweaty forehead.

There was a sardonic chuckle from Louise. “You must have traveled too quickly from Artois.” 

“Certainly,” stressed François. “If I had the power, I would have flown here.”

Louise laughed in spite of her heartbreak. Then her face crumbled, fresh tears trickling down her cheeks. “Is it true?” She just needed to hear it from her son. “Is Charles really dead?” 

A somber François nodded. “I wanted to be the one to tell you.” 

“I knew something was amiss.” It was almost like she could read her son’s thoughts. “My dearest son, you know me very well. I would not let it go until I was told the truth.”

 _It is all the fault of the damned English king who broke our treaty because of his appetite for conquests,_ François snarled inwardly. If it were not for Henry, Charles would have still been alive. Despite his anger at her birth country, François’ heart swelled with mingled respect to his wife and joy as Elisabeth settled herself in a gilded chair near the bed and started to talk to his mother about her granddaughters. It pleased him to see how much the former English princess cared for his mother.

* * *

_**December 17, 1514, Ribeira Palace, Lisbon, Portugal** _

“It is a lovely day,” Marguerite, Princess of Portugal, commented. 

Despite having spent months in her new country, Marguerite was still unaccustomed to such a warm winter. Portugal had a long border with the Atlantic Ocean on one side and with Spain on the other one. Situated at the mouth of the River Tagus where it meets the ocean, Lisbon had a spring-like weather all year round. As Marguerite sat in a high-back armchair near a window, she watched the smooth expanse of the calm sea; a stream of sunlight illuminated its surface. 

“Yes, it is,” accented Queen Maria of Portugal, the second wife of King Manuel of Portugal. “Today, my girls spent several hours playing in the gardens with their governess.”

Maria sat in a wooden chair, ornamented with leaves of acanthus, at the opposite side of the room, between her two daughters – young Infanta Isabel and Infanta Beatrice. Maria had invited her new daughter-in-law to join the sewing circle she had arranged. It was clear from the sour look on Maria’s countenance that the queen had hoped her stepson’s spouse would decline. 

They were the queen’s spacious private chambers, which were mostly furnished with walnut furniture ornamented with inlaid ebony. Although the Flemish craftsmen had first introduced the art of inlaying with ebony or ivory in Flanders, this style of decorating furniture had become popular in Spain and Portugal a few decades ago. The walls were hung with tapestries portraying biblical topics and the scenes from the life of the House of Aviz, including images of Maria and Manuel. 

Marguerite shifted her gaze from her stepmother. She stared out and voiced her thoughts at the sight of a galleon moving towards the harbor. “I cannot help but think of France.”

A long silence ensued. Isabel and Beatrice sighed and continued sewing, while Maria began to make huge stitches unlike the small, lovely ones she always did when she was not nervous. 

The news of France’s victory thrilled Marguerite. But even better was the tidbits of Gaston de Foix’s victory over King Ferdinando de Aragón in Navarre, which made Gaston a hero. That man was a true knight, and just the mere thought of him, clad in armor and holding a longsword, was enough to make the former French princess weak in the knees, her heat thumping loudly in her breast.

Marguerite’s mind conjured the pictures of her and Gaston de Foix’s many evenings when they had discussed medieval romances and the arts, and when they had fantasized of their possible marriage. A future that was not destined to happen… _Oh Gaston, you were my first love. Had I not a duty to France, I might have done what the Princess Marie of England did and eloped with you. Alas, you and I are far too loyal to François to do such a thing._ Marguerite emitted a forlorn sigh. 

She then forced herself to stop dreaming about what could have been; that would only cause her to yearn for what she did not have and could never get. _Count your blessings, my dearest Margot, for you have what other women can never even imagine,_ her mother’s voice resounded in her mind. Louise de Savoy had written this to her daughter many times since their meeting in Navarre.

Miguel was a sweet teenaged boy and a good husband. His family had welcomed her with open arms. Well, almost all of them had. Maria de Aragón, one of the Catholic monarchs’ daughters and Miguel’s stepmother, was not pleased that Portugal had signed a treaty with France against her father; therefore, the Queen of Portugal was cold and sometimes hostile to Marguerite on principle.

Portugal’s attack on Spain had made the usually docile Maria very vocal about her displeasure, especially in Marguerite’s presence. Since the previous summer, the Portuguese forces had been involved in skirmishes with the Spanish along the Spanish-Portuguese border, stretching from the lower portion of the Minho River to the north of the mouth of the Guadiana River. Eventually, the Portuguese had defeated the enemy near the border town in Spain – Fuentes de Oñoro. 

Because of her many pregnancies, Queen Maria was a tall and slightly plump woman, whose facial features were neither beautiful nor ugly. She had an average appearance with a pair of pale blue Trastámara eyes, a small nose, and full lips. As always, today her dark flowing hair was hidden under a gray lace mantilla, with the ends crossed over neck and draped over the opposite shoulder. Maria’s lavishly embroidered gray satin gown enhanced a thick aura of strictness about her. 

The two women were as different as day and night. In fact, one only had to look at the manner of dress to notice that. While Marguerite preferred gowns of bright colors in the French style and adored elaborate French headdresses, Maria de Aragón wore mostly darker clothes of somber hues, her head always covered with a mantilla. Maria was a good mother and a pious, dutiful wife and queen, but not someone for whom all things progressive and intellectual mattered, unlike Marguerite. 

“You look most pleased, Marguerite,” Queen Maria observed with a trace of annoyance.

“Our husbands are coming home victorious,” Marguerite remarked jocundly. “Why should I not be happy, Your Majesty?” Of course, she knew the reason for the woman’s foul mood. 

Maria’s nostrils flared. “We are lucky. My poor sister, Juana, is distraught that her father-in-law languishes as a prisoner of the French. She fears what will happen to him.” She heave a sigh. “At least, Juana is still allowed to write me despite her confinement to the Palace of Tordesillas.”

The tidbits of Emperor Maximilian’s capture echoed through the whole of Europe like a thunder of God’s rage. Every European ruler was utterly shocked that the mighty Habsburg emperor had been captured. _Well, maybe if the Holy Roman Emperor, the King of Aragon, and the King of England had not been so warmongering, he would not have been caught,_ Marguerite speculated.

Outwardly, Marguerite schooled her features into a neutral expression. “Worry not, Your Majesty, for my brother François treats his prisoners courteously. I’m certain that as soon as Emperor Maximilian gives France their ancestral lands back, he shall be able to return home.”

“You mean Flanders?” Beatrice chimed in innocently, not quite understanding the severity of the situation, craving to show off her knowledge. Isabel, who was a bit more observant of the tension in the room, nudged her sister to be quiet. Yet, Beatrice quizzed, “Will the emperor lose it?” 

Marguerite eyed the two princesses who had both become almost like sisters to her. The two oldest daughters of King Manuel and Queen Maria were both quite intelligent, and Margot enjoyed encouraging their sharp minds. The three young princesses often spent time together, reading books and trying on gowns which Marguerite had brought to Portugal as part of her trousseau. At times, they played cards in secret from Maria, who considered any activities at the card table a sin.

At her twelve, Infanta Isabel was beautiful, with her classical features of a goddess, almond-shaped, cerulean blue eyes shadowed by long, light eyelashes, a rose-bud mouth, and a retroussé nose. Like Marguerite, she preferred dressing in vibrant colors: today, she was attired in a rich red dress and gold brocade, trimmed with rhinestones, her golden hair rippling down her shoulders.

The eleven-year-old Infanta Beatrice was pretty, although with her natural pallor, as well as her petite frame she reminded of a pale little bird. A stomacher of gold brocade contrasted with her gown of dark silk; Beatrice’s narrow-set, hazel eyes gleamed in her white face, dominated by rather a long nose, with a light of obedience. In contrast to Isabel, Beatrice was a traditional woman, like Maria. 

Marguerite beamed at Beatrice. “That is correct.” The girl nodded at her. “But not just Flanders: all the provinces of what is called the Netherlands as well will be returned to France, provided that the emperor accepts my brother’s demands. I wonder how long His Imperial Majesty will persist.” 

Maria set aside an embroidery hoop. “It is the worst thing for our family that my nephew will be denied part of his inheritance,” she professed, a hint of an accusation in her tone. 

“He will have Spain,” Marguerite noted dryly, her lips pressed together. She was nearly pleased to see the older woman flinch at the thinly veiled reminder that Miguel should have been King of Spain because his late mother, the late Princess Isabel, was older than Juana of Castile.

“Do you miss France, Margot?” Isabel hoped to diffuse the growing friction between them.

“I do; very much,” Marguerite admitted earnestly. She then rallied, straightening in her seat. “However, Portugal is my home now, and I put my loyalty to my husband’s family first.”

“Such wise words,” Maria assessed, meeting Marguerite’s gaze, a strange emotion flickering across her countenance. “I hope you will never have to choose between them.”

Marguerite nodded, a stab of pity towards the queen. Portugal was France and Navarre’s ally, making it easy for her to swear her loyalty. Much like Elisabeth of France, Maria was in the situation where her spouse fought against her family, and the bad blood between the two men was highly unlikely to end anytime soon. It was not a situation Margot would wish anyone to find themselves in. 

Isabel wanted to provide a less tense topic when a breathless page sprinted inside the room.

“The standard of His Majesty has been sighted!” the man announced excitedly.

“God be thanked,” Maria breathed with a smile. “They are safe and returning to us.” The queen might not agree with her husband on his alliances with Spain’s mortal enemies, but they did have an affectionate relationship, and she cared deeply for her stepson’s wellbeing.

“Can we go greet them, Mama?” Beatrice implored, practically bouncing in her seat.

“I wish we could, sweetheart, but it is raining,” Maria pointed out, for once not scolding her daughter for fidgeting. “Your father would not want us getting wet.”

Everyone glanced towards the window. Black clouds were scudding across the heavens.

“I suppose father might mistake us for someone else,” Beatrice broke into giggling, “if he sees us soaked to the bone by rain. This would have been so funny!” 

“Beatrice, speak like royalty!” berated the Queen of Portugal. 

Infanta Maria had an apologetic expression. “Of course, Mama.” 

Nevertheless, Queen Maria chuckled fondly, cupping Beatrice’s cheek and smiling at her and Isabel before sending her daughters off with the duenna. They would not go outside, but they would be present in the great hall to welcome the king and the prince home. After the girls had left, the queen continued embroidering, at first without paying any attention to her daughter-in-law. 

“You are still not with child,” muttered Maria finally, without looking at her daughter-in-law. “Many months have passed since your wedding, and you show no signs of pregnancy.”

Queen Maria of Portugal had birthed eight children. Infanta Maria had died at birth in 1513. So far, she was not pregnant, but it was expected to happen again with King Manuel’s return.

Marguerite balled her hands into fists, but her tone was flat as she responded, “And?”

“We will have to ask our physician to examine you if you don’t conceive soon. Miguel needs an heir, and we must exclude the probability of your bareness, Your Highness.”

Marguerite shot to her feet. “I’m young and healthy! We will have children when the Lord sends them to us.” She then performed a shallow curtsey before storming out.

“I should not have said that,” Maria uttered to herself, regretting her sharpness. 

ξξξξξ

King Manuel preferred to travel to the palace by a barge across the Tagus River unless he had to sail from the harbor. After the barge had moored, Manuel and his son, Miguel, had disembarked and rode to the Ribeira Palace, which had been largely built by 1502. The architect Diogo de Arruda had further enlarged the castle by 1510. The Portuguese Cortes and even the Casa da Índia, or House of India which administered the affairs of colonies, were located within the palace’s walls.

Manuel and Miguel together with a contingent of royal guards had arrived before the heavy rain commenced coming down from the sky. As they needed to change out of their traveling outfits, the welcome home had to be short when Marguerite encountered them in a hallway. Wishing to have a proper reunion with her spouse, Marguerite then went to his suite herself. 

By the time Marguerite came, Manuel had donned a doublet of scarlet velvet and matching hose. Her own clothes mirrored his in color, although it was lavishly embroidered with various precious stones in the French manner. Marguerite’s headdress consisted of amethysts and diamonds. 

“ _Margarida_ ,” Miguel greeted, waving his hand to dismiss his grooms before giving her a chaste kiss on the forehead. “You are even more gorgeous than when I last laid eyes on you.”

“You are such a shameless flatterer, husband of mine.” Marguerite laughed musically, taking his hands in hers and rubbing them. “Your hands are cold. What’s wrong? It is not chilly outside.” 

Miguel grinned. “The weather is very mild in winter in Portugal, especially in towns along the shore and in Lisbon. Yet, we caught some of the rain while running to the palace.”

“This rain could have washed you off from a courtyard if you had not hidden in time.”

He liked her sense of humor. “You would have rushed to save me in this case.”

“Would I?” His wife’s brow was arched, but her eyes gleamed with laughter. 

“You would.” He kissed her hands. As they pulled away from one another, he continued, “My father would not let me go anywhere without appropriate layers. He worries constantly and a lot about my health. In fact, I’m surprised that His Majesty even let me remain near the battlefield.” 

Miguel led his spouse away from the antechamber. They entered his bedroom dominated by a cool range of silver and turquoise shades in the interior and the decorations. The walls were swathed in blue brocade, while one of them and the plafond were decorated with allegorical and mythological frescoes, which were nevertheless not as popular in Portugal as they were in France. This distinguished the tastes of the future monarch from his father and stepmother’s conservative ones.

A bed draped in silver velvet stood in the corner, and above it on the wall hung the fresco of the goddess Aphrodite and her lover, Adonis, enjoying a brief period of happiness before he was killed in a myth. This fresco had been painted by Jorge Afonso, the court’s royal painter. Turquoise-brocaded couches were lined along another wall. Walnut chairs and armchairs with the painted and gilded wood decorations, with marble tables between them, were tastefully arranged around the area. 

“You cannot blame a man for being cautious with his heir,” Marguerite defended King Manuel, guiding him closer to the stone hearth, where a fire had already been lit.

“I have five brothers,” Miguel protested. “His Majesty is too overprotective.” 

They eased themselves in armchairs that stood so close that they held each other’s hands. 

“But he has only one Miguel,” countered his wife. “And I would prefer you stayed alive.”

The prince’s face lit up. “You would. Really?”

A bemused Marguerite furrowed her brows. “Naturally. You are my husband.”

To her amazement, this statement actually damped Miguel’s mood somewhat, his shoulders sagging. “Of course,” he muttered, a note of disappointment in his voice.

“Have I offended you?” She let go off one of his hands to cup his cheek.

“No. I just hoped that you can love me as I love you,” Miguel explained, averting his eyes, his cheeks reddening. Any conversation about feelings still made him uncomfortable. 

_Oh, you poor sweet fool_ , Marguerite cried silently. She remembered how Elisabeth had come to France with her head in the clouds and stars in her eyes, dreaming to embark on a chivalric romance. Luckily, Louise and Marguerite had cured her of that fantasy, saving her from heartbreaks as François de Valois was not eager to discard his mistresses. Marguerite liked that Miguel was faithful to her. 

“Miguel, husband!” Marguerite struggled to invent the right words, so there was a short pause. “We are young and freshly married. It is too early for us to be in love.”

This seemed to upset him more, and the prince turned away from her. “I do not tell you how to feel, so I request that you do the same for me out of your respect to me.”

Marguerite looked deeply into her heart: she did not yet love Miguel. Yet, her affection for her spouse was growing thanks to his tender, respectful treatment of her. Years ago, she had experienced amorous sentiments towards Gaston, and only her mother had compelled them to stop their romance. She and Gaston had exchanged letters, and one of her ladies had aided Marguerite and her admirer to have secret strolls in the garden. _Good that_ _I’m not obsessed with Gaston,_ she concluded.

“You are sixteen,” Marguerite told the prince, wincing as she thought of her own teenage love. “I am new and exotic for you. You barely know me, so I’m an interesting novelty.”

“You speak as though you were a pretty decoration instead of my wife,” Miguel noted, staring at her almost like a naive child who did not understand the way the world worked.

She released a sigh. “Miguel, you say that you adore me now.” She brought her finger to his lips before he could interrupt her. “However, your feelings could change with age.”

“And if they do not?” her husband challenged.

“Then I’ll be the luckiest and happiest woman in all of Europe,” Marguerite proclaimed, unable to keep a radiant smile off her visage. “Hopefully, you will keep your word.”

“I shall, I swear.” Miguel grabbed her hand and pressed it to his chest. He then spoke in her native French. “Do you feel how fast it is beating? It is because you are with me, Margot!”

Her hand trembled as she felt his heartbeat accelerating further. “I do.”

His scrutiny flew to the fresco above the bed. “This marvelous painting! My flower, it depicts Aphrodite and Adonis, and in my eyes, you are my goddess whom I worship with all my soul.”

The old fear of losing Miguel during the recent war against Spain resurfaced, and Marguerite shook her head. “You did not die like Adonis! Don’t even compare yourself to him!”

His eyes darkened with desire. “Margot, my Margot! Our marital bliss will last for all eternity if you allow me to demonstrate how much I need you and admire you in all senses.”

Miguel’s confessions sounded more romantic in French. His wife smiled at the absence of accent in her husband’s French, for they often spoke in her native tongue. “Show me, Miguel.” 

The prince leaned forward. For the first time since their wedding, Miguel initiated a possessive, hungry kiss. Soon they parted and stood up, and then he scooped Marguerite into his arms. He carried her to his bed, where they had never made love before because Miguel usually visited his spouse in her chambers. Only the sounds of the fire crackling and the tearing of fabric could be heard.

* * *

**_May 12, 1515, Windsor Castle, county of Berkshire, England_ **

The Feast of St Etheihard of Canterbury was a bright and warm day. The plains around the town of Windsor, forests, and the banks of the River Thames were all green and vibrant, gleaming in the rays of sunlight. The vast park stretched around the Castle of Windsor, and the blue water in fountains rippled lazily. Above the firmament was a blue cloudless vault as far as eye could reach.

Just like the ice had long thawed, so had King Henry of England. Although he was quick to allow Charles Brandon to come back to court after their return from France, he had not invited his sister, in spite of having not met yet his nephew, who was his godson and namesake. However, a week ago, he had summoned to Windsor Princess Mary Brandon née Tudor, Duchess of Suffolk, their son, and her two stepdaughters, who were Charles Brandon’s children from his previous marriages.

Now, her head held high, Mary passed through the corridors with a slow, measured gait of royalty. Surrounded by her handmaidens, she was holding her five-month-old son. She had refused to have the boy being carried by his nursemaid, unable to tear herself away from her boy. Her once red-gold Tudor hair had darkened into a rich chestnut by now. Today, Mary was attired in a fashionable red dress with silver embroidering that matched the colors of her husband’s coat-of-arms.

At last, Mary arrived at the great hall, waiting for the herald to announce them.

The loud voice echoed through the richly tapestried hallway. “Her Highness, Princess Mary Tudor, Princess of England and Duchess of Suffolk! Lord Henry Brandon, Earl of Lincoln!”

The English royal couple sat on the carved thrones, under a purple velvet canopy. They regarded Mary coolly, for they were still angry with the princess for having eloped with Brandon. The former princess kept a careful grip on little Hal as she made her three curtsies: first when she entered, then when she neared the middle of the aisle, and finally when she arrived at the foot of the dais.

The assemblage contemplated Mary curiously; they bowed and curtsied to her.

Hal started fussing when he caught sight of his father in the throng of courtiers. “Papa!” Hal Brandon exclaimed, pleased that the Duke of Suffolk had recognized him and grinned.

King Henry guffawed. Nonetheless, he glowered despite saying in a playful tone, “It seems that the boy is more excited to see his father rather than his royal uncle.” 

“Forgive him, Your Majesty,” Mary pleaded with an impish smile. “He is far too young to know that he is in front of a majestic ruler to greet you properly.”

Her brother chortled before getting off the throne and descending the steps from the dais.

 _I hope he does not ask to hold my son._ Mary thought of how Hal had reacted when Charles had first come home and picked up his son, or the first time Edmund had visited. She could imagine Henry’s reaction if Hal, frightened of an unknown man, decided to scream as though he were facing a monster, pulling the king’s beard as if to defend himself. The first child of the Brandon spouses was a robust boy, with his mother’s deep blue eyes, his father’s blonde hair, and chubby cheeks. 

When Henry got closer, he lowered his voice not to let anyone else hear. “Edmund warned me.” He then raised his voice for all to hear. “Hal is a handsome and strong boy, my sweet sister. The Earl of Lincoln ought to be a credit to his namesake and to be as illustrious as his Tudor ancestors.”

“I hope so,” Mary said before turning to her son. “Hal, say hello to your uncle and king.” 

Hal Brandon, who had been waving at his father mere moments ago, veered his scrutiny to the red-haired monarch. “Uncile Henny,” the child lisped, almost questioningly.

This was followed by a round of chuckling. “Well, that was close enough,” the monarch decided good-naturedly, reaching out to pat Hal’s arm, having the good sense to make sure the infant saw what he was doing not to startle the boy. “I hope that my sons will be as charming as you.”

Her gaze flying to the Queen of England, Mary distinguished Catherine’s slight flinch at these words, although her sister-in-law recovered by straightening herself in her seat. There was the tension in Henry’s shoulders, which did not go unnoticed by Mary. Despite his joy at meeting his nephew, Mary was well aware that her royal brother hated that two out of his three sisters – soon to be three depending on the outcome of Elisabeth’s new pregnancy – had sons while he still had none.

Mary emphasized with Catherine’s afflictions. _These tragedies must have affected Catherine as she sees every dead baby as a punishment from God. Yet, punishment for what?_ Mary was certain that her sister-in-law would never wish ill upon her son, but she wondered if the queen had hoped that there would be no children at all in Mary’s marriage, which the queen saw as an insult to her nephew.

ξξξξξ

Queen Catherine of England sat on an enormous bed canopied with a green and yellow brocade curtain, embroidered with pomegranates. She had dismissed her maids, so now she sat with a looking glass in her hand, her other hand combing her long, glossy, auburn tresses gleaming in the candlelight. It was well after midnight; the lavish festivities in honor of Mary Tudor’s arrival had ended, and the court had long retired; those who wished to continue socializing did so in their own apartments.

King Henry had sent no messages about whether or not he would be sleeping in her bed tonight, but that was not his style. He enjoyed surprising her, sometimes wearing a mask as he burst into her chambers, pretending to capture her, knowing that his antics thrilled her. Catherine and Henry often laughed afterwards before having a passionate night. Having made her hair perfect, she herself donned a nightgown of blue brocade; she then applied perfume to her neck and her wrists.

In the weeks following the birth of her stillborn son, Catherine had fasted and prayed, even wore a hair shirt, hoping that her devotion would convince the Lord to bless her with the son England so desperately needed. Once the court had moved to Windsor Castle three weeks ago, she frequented St George’s Chapel, which had been founded in 1348 by King Edward III, at times thrice a day. After Henry’s return to England from Calais, they had made several pilgrimages together.

After the Tudor ruler’s escape from the battlefield of Tournai, he had rushed to Calais and, together with his men, in haste crossed the Channel, fearing that the French could have pursued him. In the months after his return, the defeated monarch had been grumpy and intemperate, and the courtiers walked on eggshells around him. The physician had recommended that the king and queen abstain from performing marital duties so that Catherine’s body could heal enough.

Much to the queen’s relief, Jane Popincourt had been exiled from England by Henry who hated the French at present. Anne Hastings née Stafford, Countess of Huntingdon and the daughter of Henry Stafford, the late Duke of Buckingham, became his new mistress. This woman, who was also the monarch’s cousin, was two years older than Catherine herself. _Another of my ladies-in-waiting is being regularly bedded by Henry. How many more women will he seduce?_ Catherine mused with anguish.

A loud clank roused Catherine from her musings. She became acutely cognizant that her hands were trembling like leaves in a wind, and she dropped her brush to the floor.

Before she could pick it up, the doors to her bedchamber flew open, and King Henry burst in, his eyes filled with mischief. He came to a sudden stop upon seeing his consort, his brow furrowing in concern. “Are you well, sweetheart?” he queried as he strode towards her, ignoring the discarded brush and wrapping his arms around her after he settled himself on the bed. “Are you cold?”

“No, my lord. I’m fine,” Catherine answered, leaning into him.

“Are you sure, Cate?” Henry pressed, touching her forehead before pulling away to study her expression. “If you are feeling a bit under the weather, I shall return another night.”

“Perish the thought!” Catherine smiled lovingly. “After months without your touch, I crave it desperately.” Although Henry had returned before Christmas, they had not yet been intimate.

Henry grinned, gladdened that she found him so desirable. “I cannot deny a lady her wish.” His sultry gaze traced her figure. “Come my love, let us be husband and wife in all senses.”

His aquamarine gaze darkening with lust, he commenced undoing her laces and then let her nightgown fall to the floor. All at once, he drew back, his expression horrified. “What is that?”

For a split second, the queen was rather startled by the change of her husband’s demeanor before realizing that he was referring to her hair shirt. “Pardon me. I thought we could use some extra luck tonight,” she explained while taking off the uncomfortable garment.

The ruler gingerly touched the red marks on her skin left by the shirt, causing his wife to whimper quietly. “Don’t wear that thing ever again,” he enjoined. “It might damage your health.”

It was on the tip of Catherine’s tongue to point out that the same could be said of her fasting. Nevertheless, she could guess that Henry would probably command her to cease that as well. He did not comprehend that in order for the Almighty to bless her womb, she had to make sacrifices, much like her sister Isabel had done. _And she died for it,_ a dark little voice whispered in her mind.

Henry swung her around and cupped her chin in his hand. “Catherine, my love, I wanted to tell you how proud I am of how you acted in my absence,” he praised, affection shining in his eyes. “I knew I would be leaving England in capable hands, and I’m pleased to be proven right.”

“I was not alone. I had Norfolk and his sons, as well as Edmund.”

The monarch laughed. “You are too humble, but you do have a point though. Consequentially, I’ve decided to make my brother a permanent member of the Privy Council. However, the fact remains that it was you I put in charge, and I know that even without their help, you would have kicked those Scottish dogs hard enough that their future children would have felt your blows.”

“Henry,” Catherine scolded, yet fighting a ghost of a smile.

“Dearest, but I speak the truth,” he told her, before removing his own red damask robe and then his nightshirt. “Now come! You are not the only one who has longed a touch of heaven.”

With that, the ruler kissed his consort hard on the mouth, moving her to the middle of the bed where their naked bodies would join in the throes of passions. Their kisses were getting more and more heated as they got rid of their other garments. His hands traveled over her body, warm and hot against her bare flesh, igniting a trail of fire wherever he touched his wife. As he slid into her with one strong thrust, she arched her back and groaned, praying that they would conceive a baby tonight.

* * *

**_August 10, 1515, Château d’Amboise, Amboise, the Loire Valley, France_ **

A small group assembled in the Chapel of St Florentin to attend the christening of the newborn Dauphin Charles de Valois, Duke of Brittany. While Queen Elisabeth stayed in her apartments until her churching, the long-awaited prince would be baptized in the chapel that lay within the stone fortifications surrounding the château. The stunning, Gothic stained-glass windows, designed with Italian inspiration, portrayed biblical scenes at regular intervals along the exterior walls.

King François effused, “Finally, France has a male heir, and I have a new son.”

His lavishly bejeweled apparel shone like stars in the light from numerous candles illuminating the church. François was now hailed as _the Roi-Chevalier_ , or the Knight-King, for winning the war against the Anglo-Imperial invaders. The prestige of the House of Valois had been cemented.

“Your first _legitimate_ son,” emphasized Louise de Savoy.

Queen Elisabeth had successfully delivered a healthy son on the Feast of the Transfiguration of the Lord. At last, France had a Valois male heir, and the nation rejoiced. The royal family and everyone breathed out sighs of relief. Thousands of bells were ringing out the news of the safe delivery of a prince, which resulted in gun salutes everywhere and unprecedented festivities.

François and Elisabeth had no doubt about naming their son Charles. In honor of the ruler’s late father – Count Charles d’Angoulême. After King Charles VII of France the Victorious who had won the Hundred Years’ War. In honor of Charles d’Amboise, now hailed as a savior of the Knight-King.

“We are all merry, son,” affirmed Louise. “And you will have more offspring.”

“With God’s blessing,” intoned François. “Our line is still rather depleted of males.”

Duke Charles d’Alençon entered the conversation. “At present, there are three male Valois. I’ve never wanted Your Majesty’s crown, so I’m giddily happy now.”

Louise liked that her son’s cousin was not ambitious. “You will soon have your own child.”

“Suzanne and I lost several children.” Alençon crossed himself. “I’ve been praying not even for a living baby, but for Suzanne’s health. She is not even able to come to court.”

“Is she ailing again?” Louise had always known that Suzanne de Bourbon was an exceedingly delicate girl. “Our relationship was not smooth after your marriage, but I’ve never wished ill on your wife, Charles, for she is a kind soul and my cousin as Princess Anne’s daughter.”

Alençon’s smile was both sad and grateful. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

François administered a friendly pat upon his cousin’s shoulder. “Charles, you are free to leave the court after the christening and go to Bourbonnais. I said the same to Anne.”

“Yes, we will do so.” Alençon then gushed, “I’m most delighted that Your Majesty defeated our enemies. You are the Knight-King, one who deserves to lead our great country.”

The monarch grinned at Alençon. “You are exaggerating, cousin.”

Louise was now beaming. “François! My king! My son! My Caesar!”

The monarch exclaimed affectionately, “My beloved Mother!”

The ruler was delighted to see his mother smile sincerely for the first time in months. The death of Charles d’Amboise had hit Louise like the strongest gale. Since her return to court, Louise wore only somber clothing: today she was garbed in a gown of tawny and brown brocade passmented with gold. At first, she had wanted to wear only mourning outfits, but François had convinced her that if she had done so, someone could have connected her mourning with Amboise’s demise.

Louise glanced at the lofty altar adorned with gold leaf. Her scrutiny fixed upon the wooden cross of Jesus Christ above the altar. _Holy Father, why did you take Charles, the love of my life, to heaven? He sacrificed himself for François, just as he promised to watch over my Caesar._ Her mind floated to her secret children – Georges and Charlotte, and Louise prayed for their wellbeing.

François could read his mother’s thoughts because of her distant, sorrowful gaze. He neared her and clasped her hands in his. “Mother, nobody can fight against their fate.”

Louise squeezed his hands as well. “I shall survive, son.”

Cardinal Antoine Duprat, who had been appointed the Chancellor of France after Amboise’s passing, entered the chapel. “The procession is coming!” He hurried down the aisle. 

ξξξξξ

The door flung open, and Gaston de Foix entered with Princess Anne de France. Clad in a red gown embroidered with fleur-de-lis, Anne was glad about the dauphin’s birth, but her own daughter’s persisting health issues weighted her down like an anvil. The Duke de Nemours was grinning, his green attire creating a rainbow of merriment about him despite his apparently martial gait. 

Princess Anne cradled Dauphin Charles, swaddled in a blue and white satin blanket. A canopy of golden and purple silk, emblazoned with the Valois heraldry, was carried over the child by Anne de Montmorency and his spouse, Marie, as well as Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, and his wife, Eleonora Gonzaga. Then appeared Charles de Bourbon, Count de Montpensier.

Next proceeded Marie de Luxembourg, Dowager Countess de Vendôme. She was leading the two princesses – Renée, whose dress of beige damask set off her saturnine complexion, and Adèle, who was attired in reddish silk gown matching the color of her hair. Antoinette de Bourbon, Countess de Guise as the wife of Claude de Lorraine, followed; she was the daughter of Marie de Luxembourg. Antoinette carried the little Princess Yolande, who was clothed in a silver silk robe. 

A long line of nobles slipped into the chapel. The choir began singing psalms, and the sound reverberated off the stone walls, some of them frescoed, and off the high, vaulted ceiling.

Princess Anne stopped beside Étienne de Poncher, Bishop of Paris. He and several bishops, all dressed in rich red robes, strode to Duprat. Anne, Gaston, Louise, and Marie approached the altar, for they had been chosen to be the godparents. The others, including the ruler, stepped aside.

After the Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament, Cardinal Duprat asked the godparents what name the prince would bear. Anne de France responded, “Charles. Only Charles.”

Louise noticed an errant tear trickle down Anne’s cheek. Anne must be reminiscing about her deceased brother. “There is no other name we can give him, Your Highness.”

Anne’s mouth lengthened into a half-grimace of pain, half-smile. “Thank you.”

Anne and Louise, her niece, traded compassionate glances. Their reconciliation was genuine.

Gaston noted, “Charles is a symbolic name, for we crushed the invaders.” 

Duprat stepped to Anne. Dauphin Charles stared at them with his mother’s pale green eyes, a tuft of red-gold hair noticeable on his small head; his long nose indicated his Valois ancestry. Duprat then administered the sacrament of baptism and anointed the infant with the holy oil.

The boy wore a baptismal gown of blue silk ornamented with fleur-de-lis. The prince had been made Duke of Brittany to ensure that Brittany, who had once been independent in spite of having been ruled by the Capetian House of Dreux, would have its own ruler, through a nominal one.

“Such a bonny prince,” whispered Marie de Luxembourg. “With eyes the color of a forest.”

 _My beloved son! My dearest Charles!_ enthused François as he watched the ceremony with a blithesome expression. _My first son with Bess. My precious boy conceived during the war against the English._ Garlands of unconditional love flourished in him. He had wished this babe to be a boy, for France needed a male heir after years of childbearing silence in the Valois family.

The monarch remembered the moment when his wife had presented his son to him.

_King François rushed into his spouse’s bedroom like a gust of wind. The queen’s ladies-in-waiting curtsied to him, each smiling. His heartbeat sped at the sight of an emphatically euphoric Elisabeth holding the small bundle in her arms and cooing over the child. His countenance split into a resplendent grin as he approached her enormous ebony bed canopied with burgundy silk._

_The queen shifted her gaze to her husband. “François, come! Meet our son!”_

_“France’s prince and future king!” The ruler crossed to the bed._

_“He looks like you, Bess,” he remarked. “Your eyes, your hair.”_

_A peal of laughter emanated from her. “And he has your long nose. A true Valois prince!”_

_François did not tell her that he would prefer his heir to take more after the Valois family than the Tudor one. “You have done very well, wife. France and I thank you for our boy.”_

_“Dauphin Charles,” Bess declared as she planted a kiss on the infant’s forehead._

_“Just as we discussed.” The king eased himself on the edge of the bed. “Can I hold him?”_

_Nodding, Elisabeth handed the baby to his other parent. As soon as the infant found himself in his father’s arms, he stared at François with awed curiosity. The ruler knew well how to hold a child. For the rest of the day, the content parents admired their precious boy and crooned to him._

All of a sudden, the ruler’s mind drifted to the tragic pages of France’s history. His own father, Count Charles d’Angoulême, had passed away of a severe fever before turning forty. Charles VIII of France had died after having hit his head on the lintel of a door at Amboise. Charles VI of France had suffered from bouts of insanity throughout most of his life, which had nearly broken the realm.

 _Charles the Sixth of France,_ François bemoaned, his eyes glued to his son in Anne’s arms. _The poor man believed that he was made of glass_. _It was unclear who fathered some of his progeny due to Isabeau of Bavaria’s promiscuity. He disinherited his heir, Charles the Seventh, and gifted France to our ancient enemy._ No, he would not think of the worst monarch in his country’s history. François redirected his musings to King Charles V the Wise, another great Valois monarch. 

The ruler’s gaze slid to the stained-glass depicting St Francis of Assisi. “Gracious Lord and St Francis, my patron saint, bless my son,” François prayed as he crossed himself.

Duprat declared, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

Dauphin Charles broke into a series of wails, his former composure suddenly gone. Obviously, he had a healthy pair of lungs. Anne crooned to the baby, and he soon ceased crying.

Princess Renée murmured, “Our brother is so small. I want him to grow up.”

“To play with him,” finished Princess Adèle.

“Shhh, Your Highnesses,” admonished Antoinette de Bourbon, Countess de Guise.

As her mother was the dauphin’s godmother, all the princesses were now in the care of the Guise spouses. Antoinette was holding the hands of Princesses Renée and Adèle, who stood at her sides. Her husband – Claude de Lorraine, Count de Guise – held the little Princess Yolande. Antoinette’s wedding to Claude had been arranged by Louise de Savoy, and they were high in royal favor.

Nonetheless, Renée continued, “Yolanda and Charlie are in our care because they are small.”

Before Antoinette could scold them, King François smiled at his daughters. He murmured, “Be good big sisters to your younger brother and future king. Promise me this, my darlings.”

“We do,” Renée and Adèle chorused; Yolande was only making unclear sounds.

In a handful of moments, the ceremony was over. Princess Anne carried Dauphin Charles out of the chapel under the sumptuous canopy that was borne by the same people. The others followed.

Before exiting, the monarch’s eyes landed on a young, pretty, dark-haired woman, their gazes locking. Blushing, she turned her head away; he grinned to himself and walked out.

ξξξξξ

The royal procession walked through the vast gardens, bursts of merry laughter ripping from them. With the castle soaring above the River Loire in the riverside town of Amboise, they enjoyed the gorgeous panoramas. The sun shone like a pit of fire, and the air was hot, also filled with sweet flagrances of variegated blossoms in flowerbeds. The princesses were led away by the Guise couple, and the dauphin carried away by Marie de Luxembourg to the nursery; Alençon also left.

As they were climbing the stairs leading to the entrance, the monarch announced, “The great Maestro Leonardo da Vinci will move to France from Rome in several months.”

Louise’s sigh was mournful. “Thanks to Monsieur d’Amboise, God rest his soul.”

“May he rest in peace, Mother,” echoed her royal son.

“Everything will be well, Louise,” assured Anne compassionately.

Gaston opined, “Charles d’Amboise was a hero. He is in a better place now.”

They walked in the château and dived into a maze of corridors decorated with arrases depicting the cities of Rome, Milan, Florence, Venice, and Italian landscapes. The castle had been refurbished during the past year in the Italian style while the court had stayed at Blois, and many _objects d’art_ had been imported from Italy. Marble statues of ancient gods and goddesses adorned the hallways.

The rule halted. “Shhh,” François said in a hushed voice to his enraged mother.

They heard the high, arrogant voice of Jacquette Andron de Lansac. “The little Dauphin Charles cannot be as clever and robust as my own son with His Majesty – our Mellin. The dauphin was named after His Majesty’s father, who died without accomplishing anything, after Monsieur d’Amboise who was killed in battle, and after King Charles the Seventh, who won the Hundred Years’ War.”

The second voice belonged to Marie Gaudin. Despite both being royal mistresses, they were not enemies. “Madame de Cornefou, it is none of your business. We must know our places.”

Jacquette retorted superciliously, “Dull, insipid people such as yourself think so, but not me.” She snickered disdainfully. “So many Charleses! Not all of them in French history were heroic and victorious. What if this Dauphin Charles will be insane like Charles the Sixth?”

“The Almighty forgive you for your blasphemy!” Marie sounded horrified.

After Jacquetta’s tirades, an incensed Anne de France made her presence known. She entered the adjacent corridor and glared at the woman. “Would you dare repeat it, you whore?”

Louise stood next to Anne. “You have neither shame nor brain, Madame de Cornefou.”

A moment later, King François appeared. Flames of ire were crisscrossing his hard, arctic amber glower as he snarled, “Madame, you are educated enough to remember that Plutarch said, _‘The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be kindled.’_ Perhaps you failed to learn what moral is and have stuffed your head with nonsense, but your words might be construed as treasonous.”

Jacquette peered stared at them in consternation. Marie curtsied. 

Behind the ruler stood Nemours, Duprat, Montmorency, Chabot, and a few others.

“Imagining a royal person’s death is high treason,” underscored Anne.

Louise jeered, “The executioner from Amboise is a competent fellow.” 

A scared Jacquette made a curtsey. “Your Majesty! Your Highnesses! I beg your pardon!”

Alexandre de Saint-Gelais, Seigneur de Cornefou, emerged at the other side of the corridor. In his mid-forties, he was a short and sturdy man, with wispy strawberry blonde hair and stubble framing his jawbone. His face was smooth, but unremarkable save his intelligent, hazel eyes. They were an incongruent pair – the young, haughty, lovely Jacquette, and the awkward, rotund Alexander.

Cornefou skidded to a halt beside his spouse and flourished a bow. “Your Majesty, my wife has been under the weather as of late. She has been saying very odd things to me and others.”

Jacquette’s glare impaled her spouse who she loathed. “How dare you–”

François interrupted his paramour, addressing her husband. “Monsieur de Cornefou, you have always served me and my family well; you are an experienced diplomat.”

Cornefou was at a loss for words. Jacquette muttered, “Forgive my lapse of manners.”

François growled, “That is an insult towards Dauphin Charles, my queen, and me.”

Jacquette boldly glanced into her lover’s eyes. “I’ve asked for forgiveness.”

A smirk played in the corners of the monarch’s mouth. “Monsieur de Cornefou, I appoint you my ambassador to the kingdoms of Aragon and Castile. You will relocate to Valladolid.” 

It was tantamount to being dismissed as the king’s mistress, to being banished from the Valois court and from the realm! A shaken Jacquette protested, “Your Majesty, please–”

Her spouse cut her off sharply. “Your Majesty, it is a profound honor for us both. Jacquette and I will leave Amboise tomorrow. We will depart for Spain next week.”

François mandated, “We will take care of Mellin and Claude. They are mine.”

Jacquette blanched. “I want them to be with me if we are exiled, my liege.”

“No! My grandchildren will become our wards,” Louise decreed.

The king eyed Cornefou. “They belong to you as her husband, but my word is the law in France.”

Cornefou complied. “I love Mellin and Claude as my own, but it is Your Majesty’s right.”

“Pack your things,” recommended Louise with an acrimonious smirk.

François directed his gaze at Marie Gaudin who had not interfered. “I wish to see you tonight.”

“As you command, Your Majesty.” A momentary blush suffused Marie’s cheeks.

Anne and Louise traded glances of displeasure; they strutted away with their maids. Jacquette performed a shallow curtsey, while Alexander de Saint-Gelais bowed; then they scurried away. 

The king and his entourage continued their way through the corridor.

“That was quite a spectacle,” the Duke de Nemours said in disbelief.

Philippe de Chabot assessed, “Such a suitable punishment to send that woman to our foes.”

The king averred, “This exile might make Jacquette humble; I don’t need her anymore.”

Montmorency, who was Queen Elisabeth’s staunch ally, emphasized, “Madame Jacquette does not deserve the honor of getting Your Majesty’s attention. Only the queen does.”

François berated, “Monty, you are my friend, but don’t pry into my personal affairs.”

“I apologize, Your Majesty.” Montmorency dropped into a bow.

Cardinal Duprat chimed in, “My liege, I’ll go prepare.”

“Certainly, Your Eminence.” François dismissed him with the wave of a hand.

ξξξξξ

The king, Nemours, Chabot, and Montmorency reached a long gallery, where the walls were draped in multicolored brocade. Gaston went ahead to greet his cousin and her husband.

Gaston de Foix neared the Count and Countess de Châteaubriant. “Good morning!”

Françoise de Foix beamed at him. “Cousin Gaston! Hero of Navarre and France!”

“You look lovelier than the freshest rose,” complimented Nemours, bowing.

Françoise chortled. “Even a martial man can make delightful compliments.”

“Nice to see you again, Gaston.” Françoise’s husband sketched a bow.

 _Our liege lord’s heated gaze directed at Françoise speaks volumes,_ the Duke de Nemours remarked to himself. Gaston did not want the countess to be a royal mistress, partly because he had been Françoise’s clandestine lover himself when she had come to court on rare occasions. However, there was no way to avoid it now, and Françoise had already been unfaithful to her husband.

“Your Majesty,” chorused the Châteaubriant spouses.

Françoise sank into an entrancing curtsey, which elicited a broad grin from the ruler, his gaze getting more lascivious. Jean de Laval bowed; he discerned the king’s attention to his wife.

“Rise, the most charming countess from Brittany,” François nearly sang.

As she did, Françoise lauded, “Your Majesty is the best and truest Knight-King.”

“Who saved France from the invaders.” Chabot guessed François’ intentions.

Françoise tilted her head to one side. “Gaston is a hero, too.”

“A far lesser man than His brave Majesty.” Nemours could not let anyone distinguish the barely noticeable interest which Françoise and he had in each other due to their passing affair. 

The countess bestowed a luminous smile at the ruler. “I love medieval chivalry and literature such as the Chanson de Roland or the Romance of the Rose. You are our new French Rolland!”

François corrected, “I’m the French Zeus, Madame, because I’m France’s sovereign.”

As a verbal game continued, the monarch traversed his scrutiny over Françoise de Foix. She had caused his heart to hammer while in the chapel. Not older than twenty, Françoise was a tall and slender brunette clad in a gown of magenta rose velvet, her stomacher of cloth of silver. Her radiant loveliness – starriest eyes of a cerulean blue hue, a dainty Greek nose, a complexion of lilies and roses, and a lush mouth – dazzled François. _Even Marie Gaudin with her elfin beauty does not arouse me so._

François noticed the undeniable attraction to him in the eyes of a blushing Françoise. Indeed, the monarch was the epitome of magnificence in an azure taffeta shirt with a standing band collar, Venetian hose of white silk, as well as a black and blue brocade doublet embroidered with gold thread. Three black ostrich plumes festooned his toque of white velvet. _His Majesty is such a handsome, refined, and virile man. I’m certain that he will court me,_ a chirpy Françoise mused.

An irritated Jean de Laval, Count de Châteaubriant, coughed to focus their attention upon him. “Your Majesty, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but my wife and I have just arrived.”

The monarch smiled. “Of course, Monsieur de Châteaubriant. Your wife is a bright jewel.”

“My spouse is safe with me.” Jean stepped to his wife and grabbed her hand.

François did not like the man’s behavior. “You rarely come to court, and I insist that this time you stay for many months. Brittany has long become part of my realm, and Breton nobles ought to integrate themselves into French affairs, so you will have a place on my Privy Council.”

Jean figured out the reason. “My wife and I prefer to return to Brittany.”

“I have other plans for you.” Casting a heady glance at Françoise, the king strolled off.

The ruler sauntered through rooms and hallways, his entourage tailing after him. Everywhere the luxury was unparalleled: ornately carved gilded, mahogany, oak, or ebony furniture with inlays of ivory, gold, and precious metals, cycles of secular and biblical frescoes, expensive wall hangings. Salamanders, the emblem of King François, appeared on the walls here and there, together with the entwined “F & E,” which referred to the personal insignia of the king and his consort.

François told Gaston, “Cousin, I have a gift for the majestic Countess de Châteaubriant.”

Gaston consented, “Your Majesty, I shall deliver it in secret from Count Jean.”

Nodding, the king slipped into the presence chamber. Chabot grinned and followed with Gaston. Montmorency trailed after them, resigned to their sovereign’s unavoidable new affair.

ξξξξξ

Bright light filtered into the spacious _Grande Sale_ , or the Council Chamber located in the Gothic wing of the château. The walls were made of limestone alternating with brick; the vaulted slate roof and many pillars were decorated with fleur-de-lis. One wall was adorned with the arms of France and Brittany, as well as the Valois blazon. Under a canopy of purple silk, King François was seated in a massive throne, set against one wall, and draped in the blue and golden silk with fleur-de-lis.

“Monsieur de Montpensier,” beckoned the monarch.

Charles de Bourbon crossed to the throne, his bearing too imperial. _Montpensier is a war hero, but he is too haughty for my liking_ , the king noted to himself _._ Attired in a doublet of emerald velvet, the placard of which was wrought with gold and silver, Montpensier was quite an attractive man, with a sharp, yet a patrician, face, rather a long nose, and dark brown hair hidden beneath a brown silk cap. 

“I’m at Your Majesty’s disposal.” Montpensier swept a bow.

The ruler proclaimed, “Cousin, you courageously defended Navarre from the Spaniards. In the recognition of your military talents, I’ve made you Constable of France.”

A stunned Montpensier bowed low. “Your Majesty, it is a huge honor for me, and I thank you for it.” His scrutiny flicked to Gaston. “But what about His Grace de Nemours?”

Gaston stood together with Odet de Foix, Viscount de Lautrec, and Thomas de Foix-Lescun. They had all distinguished themselves in battles in Navarre. At thirty, Odet was a tall and thin man with a pale complexion, black hair, and sycophantic gray eyes. A man of average height and build, the twenty-year-old Thomas had an average appearance, save his infectious smile. Odet and Thomas were Françoise’s brothers. Gaston was the most handsome man among the Foix cousins.

“I have another role,” Nemours uttered cryptically.

The monarch explained at length. “To regain his freedom, Emperor Maximilian is ready to cede Flanders to France. According to his marriage contract with the late Marie, Duchess of Burgundy, he inherited it and can bequeath it to his heirs or transfer his right of ownership.” 

“That is absolutely amazing!” exclaimed Chabot. “Flanders will be restored to the Valois!”

All those in attendance clapped their hands in glee, congratulating their liege lord. 

François waved for silence. “Nemours will rule Flanders as my regent.”

Montmorency opined, “Monsieur de Nemours is the best candidate for this job.”

“Thank you, Monty.” Gaston laughed. “I’ll be departing soon.”

The ruler stated, “Your Grace, I’ve also elevated you to Duke de Montpensier.” Louise believed that as Vendôme had been created a duke, it should also be done to his another Bourbon cousin.

Montpensier dropped into a servile bow. “Your Majesty, I’m your most grateful vassal.” Indeed, he was pleased to obtain all these honors, but he reckoned that he deserved far more.

Chancellor Duprat unfolded a parchment and read the edict. “His Most Christian Majesty, King François the First of France, hereby appoints Baron Anne de Montmorency, Odet de Foix, Viscount de Lautrec, and Thomas de Foix de Lescun, as well as Philippe de Chabot, Seigneur de Brion, Count de Charny and de Buzançois, Marshals of France from now onwards.”

The subjects bowed, then began thanking and praising the Knight-King. 

The ruler added, “Monty, finish the negotiations with the English with regards to the liberation of our three prisoners. Our talks with their ambassador have dragged for months.”

The King of France stood up, and everyone flourished bows again. As he sauntered out of the room, the monarch’s mind was on the beautiful Françoise de Foix, then jumped to his wife. François walked to his queen’s apartments, eager to see Elisabeth and spend the day with her and their children. 

* * *

**_September 1, 1515, Château de Vincennes, the town of Vincennes, near Paris, France_ **

King François sauntered through the corridors of the château, which had first been built as a hunting lodge for King Louis VII in the mid-12th century in the forest of Vincennes. The walls were either bare or draped in tapestries portraying the coronation and reign of King Philippe VI of France, the first Valois monarch, which had been purchased from the workshops in Paris and Arras.

The hallways meandered like long ribbons, and the roofs were high, some vaulted and some beautifully sculpted. Cardinal and new Chancellor Antoine Duprat followed the monarch.

“Something good has come out of the invasion,” uttered the ruler.

Duprat answered, “The Low Countries have been restored to France.”

“Not yet, Your Eminence. Only after Emperor Maximilian will sign the treaty.”

“Your Majesty, please be at ease. I conducted all the negotiations with His Imperial Majesty, and he knows that none of his offers, including one to pay a huge ransom for him, would work. I told him that only the transfer of Flanders to the French Crown would result in his liberation.”

“Excellent,” almost sang an elated François.

The Valois sovereign had arrived at Vincennes to meet with his prisoner. Before the king had convened the Estates General in Paris and officially terminated his mother’s regency. The ruler had designated Louise de Savoy as his regent in his absence or in case of his inability to perform his kingly duties. If Louise was not available either, Princess Anne would perform this role.

They walked out of the castle and headed to the Sainte-Chapelle, or the Holy Chapel located within the château’s grounds. They had been notified that Emperor Maximilian was now praying there. During all this time, Maximilian had been allowed relative freedom, having been permitted to leave his chambers to have short strolls in the gardens or to pray in the Sainte-Chapelle. 

François voiced his decision. “My queen will attend the Privy Council. Her intelligence is our valuable asset. I want her to learn the governance with my mother and Your Eminence.”

The cardinal was not astonished. “I shall help Her Majesty in everything.”

“Thank you, Your Eminence. It will bring a great deal of good for our country.”

ξξξξξ

The Holy Roman Emperor knelt in front of the altar; his head bowed as he prayed. His figure was silhouetted against the yellow glow of the numerous candles glowing in the chapel. On the Feast of St Giles of Provence, one of the fourteen holy helpers, he had to make the final decision.

_Mighty and all-seeing God! Long ago, You sent your presence in a towering cloud and burning pillar of fire to guide Your people through the wilderness. When I do not know which way to go, I ask You for guidance in the right direction. Please protect me from harm and direct my steps. Is my decision to cede Flanders correct? You are my strong tower, our gracious Lord. Amen._

Maximilian raised his gaze to the lofty, painted, and vaulted ceiling that created the impression of dancing flames of stone. Established in 1379, the construction of the Sainte-Chapelle had begun before the demise of King Charles V in 1380; it had been finished during the Queen Mother’s regency in 1509. On the ceiling, he saw the monograms of François I and Louise de Savoy. _The mother and son will rule France together for the rest of her life,_ the emperor noted to himself.

He looked around: the grand Sainte-Chapelle of Vincennes embodied the majesty of Gothic architecture in the traditional style of a castle chapel with a single nave and two oratories. He heard that it had been designed much like the Saint Chappelle at the Palais de la Cité in Paris. A set of stained-glass windows depicted biblical scenes and the baptism of Louis IX known as Saint Louis.

“Holy Father, send me a sign,” Maximilian implored. “I beg of You.”

A male voice spoke in Flemish. “Can my arrival be this sign, Your Imperial Majesty?”

Emperor Maximilian stood up, crossed himself, and pivoted. His royal captor and Chancellor Duprat, who had frequently come to the emperor, were strolling down the nave.

François halted beside the emperor and flourished a gallant bow. “Your Imperial Majesty, it is nice to see you in excellent health and, hopefully, in relatively good spirits.”

The emperor bowed shallowly. “Your Majesty, can a prisoner feel joyful?”

The King of France retorted, “You have been treated most well. The French expel those who impinge upon our independence, but we are magnanimous and hospitable.”

Emperor Maximilian studied the Valois monarch. In spite of his rival’s youth and his fame of a philanderer, Maximilian saw the stamp of profound intelligence and inner strength on François’ features. The emperor disliked the flamboyance of François’ bejeweled outfit of violet silk slashed with white taffeta, lavishly decorated with gold, and his matching Italian puffy hose. However, Maximilian had never seen such a tall man, finding François’ appearance regal and imposing.

 _A lot of jewelry and extravagance! It is foreign to German and Austrian royals,_ Maximilian remarked to himself. Nonetheless, Henry Tudor was mistaken. François was a strong ruler, but also one who needed to learn wisdom, caution, and to mature. His grandson, Charles, and many others underestimated François. The Frenchman was impulsive and rash, which he considered François’ weaknesses.

François surveyed the emperor, whom he had seen vaguely in Tournai. The months of his stay in France had not damaged the heath of Maximillian, who was nonetheless in a murky mood. The emperor looked well rested; he had little to do save reading, sleeping, and praying. _The emperor looks unusual in his garments of brown brocade decorated with diamonds in abundance._

The Habsburg monarch returned, “I thank you for treating me in accordance with my rank.”

François’ eyes flashed with mischief. “Save the absence of German clothes.”

Maximilian appreciated a light air about the other man. “I do not complain.” A hard edge entered his voice. “Yet, I’ve been incarcerated in this château to remind me of the English failure to subjugate France. King Henry the Fifth, the victor of Agincourt, died in this castle in 1422.”

François smiled: the shrewd emperor guessed why he was confined to this fortress. “Indeed. However, the death of the said king – no French compatriot likes him – happened in accordance with God’s will, just as everything does, including your capture. Would you deny that?”

“Denying the Lord’s will,” began the pious Maximilian, “is heresy.”

“The Spanish Inquisition would definitely judge so.”

“There is no Inquisition in the Burgundian Netherlands; it will not be established there.”

François inferred, “Do we have your full consent?”

With an audible sigh, Maximilian acquiesced, “Yes. I shall sign.”

Duprat briefly touched his red robes. “Then let’s go to Your Imperial Majesty’s rooms.” 

François gestured towards the exit from the chapel. “After you.”

Having crossed themselves, they walked down the nave and left. On the way to the emperor’s quarters, five knights who always guarded the notable prisoner escorted them. The emperor, the king, and the cardinal entered the donjon, surrounded by the rectangular circuit of walls, which had served as a residence for the royal family and housed the library and study of King Charles V.

ξξξξξ

The emperor was lodged in the spacious royal chambers, which had years ago been occupied by the Capetian and Valois rulers of France. The massive ebony furniture and religious arrases dated back to the reigns of Kings Philippe VI and Charles V of France, who had both liked this place. 

_This room is such a grim place for monarchs,_ Maximilian fretted wordlessly _._ _That is why I’m here as a reminder._ Indeed, three 14th-century Capetian kings had breathed their last at Vincennes: Louis X the Headstrong in 1316, Philippe V the Tall in 1322, and Charles IV called the Fair in 1328, ending the direct Capetian line. King Henry V of England had passed away of dysentery here.

“Done.” Maximilian signed and stamped the treaty between him and King François, which lay in front of him on a table. “The Netherlands, including Flanders, are yours.”

François spoke philosophically as he signed the document and put the Valois seal next to the Habsburg one. “Every victory and every defeat have their price, Your Imperial Majesty.”

Maximilian could not voice his regret concerning the invasion, so he said, “Your Majesty can find out that the pursuit of glory might take you either to new heights or to disastrous plights.”

The monarch answered forthrightly, “I anticipate that you and, most likely, your grandson Charles will attempt to re-conquer my new domains, but they will be well defended.”

“Charles, not me.” Maximilian would not do it, but his grandson was a teenaged eagle.

A grinning François lifted his head. “We are all prepared to a feud against him.”

The emperor thought of his grandson whose cunning and calculation at his young age had long surprised him. François was engrossed in his ideals of chivalry, while Charles had a very vengeful facet of his character. The King of France was an enemy to the Habsburgs, so out of his odd respect to the man who had vanquished him, Maximilian warned, “Don’t underestimate your foes.”

François skipped this advice. “Naturally, Your Imperial Majesty.” 

Duprat figured out the hint, and he would heed this advice. He would mention it to his liege lord’s mother. “Your Imperial Majesty will be released as soon as we secure the Netherlands.”

“Agreed.” Maximilian was tired; outside, the shadows of the evening were descending.

After his guests’ departure, the emperor lay on a bed draped in white silk, its headboard adorned with the Valois heraldry. He spent the whole evening reading books, which had been transported here from the Palais de Louvre from Charles V’s library. Maximilian felt guilty for the loss of the Netherlands and envisaged the rage of his daughter, Margaret of Austria, and that of his grandchildren. _Yet, what else could I do? I do not wish to die in Vincennes like Henry the Fifth of England._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers and friends! We hope you are safe and cheerful in these difficult days!
> 
> Louise de Savoy is brokenhearted in the aftermath of her lover’s demise. Charles d’Amboise is dead, but he is hailed as a hero. In this AU, Charles and Louise have 2 children: Georges born in about 1505 and Charlotte born in 1514. They will be taken care of by Amboise’s widow, and King François even elevated Amboise’s heir (his secret half-brother Georges) to a duke. 
> 
> In the Portuguese scenes, Maria of Aragon (or Maria de Aragón) has a difficult relationship with Marguerite de Valois, Miguel’s wife, because of Portugal’s alliance with France and Navarre. Margot’s nationality also alienates Maria from her. Maybe over time Maria will become less cold to her daughter-in-law, but not anytime soon, for her father was defeated by her husband, Manuel, and by Miguel. Hopefully, you like Maria’s two oldest daughters – Infanta Isabel (in history, she was Empress Isabella or Isabel) and Infanta Beatrice. 
> 
> We need to develop Miguel as a character and his relationship with Marguerite. Miguel is very young, and over time, you will see him evolving a bit. We hope you like their scene with Margot. Miguel is less traditional than his father and stepmother. As for Marguerite’s feelings for Gaston de Foix, she is no longer obsessed with her first love, but she remembers him well. 
> 
> Read Lady Perseverance’s article about Marguerite’s possible betrothals and youthful romances, including Gaston. The link is here: http://olivialongueville.com/2020/12/24/marguerite-dangouleme-betrothals-and-romances-in-adolescence/
> 
> Margarida is a Portuguese female given name, which is a variant of the English name Margaret and of the French name Marguerite. This name also means ‘daisy flower’ in Portuguese.
> 
> Princess Mary Tudor, Duchess of Suffolk, birthed a son – Henry Brandon, Earl of Lincoln; we moved his birth date forward. There will be Charles/Mary scenes in later chapters. We hope you like the sweet moments between Catherine of Aragon and King Henry, for there are still feelings between them despite their losses. Henry has a new mistress and will not be faithful to his wife. 
> 
> Elisabeth of France proved her loyalty to France and her husband, and she birthed a male heir – Dauphin Charles, Duke of Brittany. François and everyone else is happy with the prince’s birth. However, someone is upset: Jacquetta Andron de Lansac is downright disrespectful to the little dauphin, so she deserved her punishment and exile. Yet, François is not going to set aside his other mistresses, including Maria Gaudin, and now he is also smitten with Françoise de Foix. 
> 
> Françoise de Foix was a beautiful and educated woman, a true Renaissance jewel of the French court. François and Françoise will have an affair, just as they had in history. We did not want to make Françoise ideal, so she was already unfaithful to her husband with Gaston de Foix. 
> 
> Charles de Bourbon, now Duke de Montpensier, is now Constable of France. He is the same Bourbon who sacked Rome in 1527 in real history, and perhaps there will be some parallels in this story. Montpensier is pleased with his titles and honors, but he is envious and greedy. Gaston de Foix has a special role: at first, he will be regent of the Burgundian Netherlands, and then… we cannot say now. The other Foix men are brothers of Françoise de Foix and Gaston’s cousins. 
> 
> Emperor Maximilian has no choice but to cede Flanders to the French to regain his freedom, and he is tormented by this decision. Yet, Maximilian has an odd respect to François when his captor comes to him. Perhaps you discerned some foreshadowing in Maximilian’s advises. 
> 
> All the information about châteaux is historically correct unless we changed it to fit into the plot. 
> 
> Many thanks to our friend who provided invaluable assistance in editing the story.
> 
> Yours sincerely,  
> VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance


	10. Note

Friends! 

We promise that we will try to update once a month. We are really sorry for the delay. Please let us know what you think of the recent developments. 

Once a month as chapters are long. 


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